


Deep Calls Unto Deep

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt has abandonment issues, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier has Abandonment Issues, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, This Still Has A Happy Ending I Promise, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unreliable Narrator, fucking while pining, introspective as fuck, jaskier cracks, jaskier loses it a bit, wildly misusing tenses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: Jaskier is not a very good replacement for Yennefer, but he tries his best.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1378
Kudos: 1323
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [On the Losing Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281496) by [missselene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missselene/pseuds/missselene). 



Geralt found him three weeks later. 

The mountain had been a hard slog to walk down on his own, but he wanted to get as much distance between them as possible. Jaskier knew he wasn’t the most useful travel companion in the world, but he hadn’t realised how much of a burden he’d been on Geralt’s already overtaxed shoulders. Geralt trekked the Continent slaying dangerous monsters for poor pay, blatant sneers from humankind and very few rewards.

Jaskier had tried, in his own way, to do what he could to change that. He wasn’t much use at anything else other than singing, fucking and getting into trouble, which Geralt would then fish him out of. He’d tried to use his one real skill to help Geralt and improve his reputation, but then had foisted himself on the man over and over again, thinking they enjoyed each other’s company. 

Geralt was too kind, and soft-hearted. He protected Jaskier for decades, shared his hearth, let him share in his adventures, and Jaskier had hardly repaid him at all. He attempted to fumble his way through patching up the Witcher when he was hurt and sang for their supper when they passed through a town, but it didn’t balance out at all with how many times Geralt had saved him from mortal peril, or hunted for their dinner, or shared his warmth when winter drew in. 

All Jaskier had to offer was his love, and it was a paltry thing. Jaskier romanticised it even in his own head as faithful devotion, but after burying himself between so many thighs to try and distract himself it wasn’t even faithful, just devotion. Unwanted and lovesick devotion, dishonest and pathetic in turn.

Geralt deserved a love who could match him, and Yennefer’s passion seared comet-bright, obscuring the dim and meagre starlight that Jaskier could offer. They’d been alive with fury on that mountain top, both of them wild with beauty.

Jaskier was a dull little human and had bumbled in when Geralt was seething about losing the love of his life. He wasn’t even surprised about Geralt’s reaction, at this point. He’d been waiting for Geralt to send him away since Posada and was genuinely grateful that their travels had lasted so long. It had been brilliant, every miserable and muddy minute of it. He only wished he had been more helpful to Geralt, and not a weight around the poor man’s neck.

Still, if Geralt said it was over, then it was. He would make his way to Oxenfurt and hope that he could scrape his heartbreak into enough poetry to live on.

He made it to the inn back where they started the dragon quest and got himself a room for the night and a nice bath.

It was quiet without Geralt, but then it had often been quiet with Geralt as well. He could almost imagine the man, just out of the corner of his eye, patiently waiting for his turn in the bath as Jaskier talked his ear off about some nonsense. He shook himself out of it. There was no point in indulging in fantasy. This was the way it was now, and the sooner he got used to being alone the better.

He wasn’t angry, and there was no true cause for weeping when he had been given twenty wonderful years unasked for, but the best thing in Jaskier’s life had now ended, and he felt sombre with it. Jaskier usually talked, or hummed to himself, or composed under his breath, but he rather felt that silence, save the soft rippling of the bathwater, was rather appropriate. 

The room was dim with only one candle lit to ward off the night, and the wind picked up outside. He sat, alone, in cool water, holding his vigil stoically and staring unseeing out into the dark window as the rain trickled down.

Jaskier planned his route rather differently alone than he used to. He headed from inn to inn, sacrificing speed for the safety human settlements brought, a slow and demented tavern crawl across the width of the Continent where he could ply his trade. He was adaptable. He could navigate the intricacies of court diplomacy as well as fend for himself in the wild, and adapting to a post-Geralt existence would not defeat him. If his smiles were a fraction dimmer than before, there was no-one around who knew to tell.

He sang as many songs about the White Wolf as he could fit into his set without losing his audience, and happily taught children history-songs and whatever rudimentary writing skills their parents thought necessary when he passed through smaller hamlets, slipping in exciting stories of brave Witchers wherever he thought he could manage a little subtle indoctrination, which was very frequently.   
He hitched lifts with farmers or merchants for a story and a song and smiled and laughed and entertained as he always had.   
When he walked alone, he passed through the scenery like a ghost, letting his eyes drink in the beauty around him, not disturbing the birdsong with his song or playing, but slipping peacefully and silently through glades and winding moors alike. 

He bumped into Geralt again near the border with Redania.

Jaskier was performing his usual set now, classic local folk songs interspersed with thrilling tales of the White Wolf set to atmospheric music. As soon as he spotted the Witcher walk in and over to the bar, he finished his song as unobtrusively as he could and quietly took his ale off to an empty table in the furthest corner. He still needed to get lodgings for the night but didn’t want to disturb Geralt any more than he already had.

He packed his lute away in its case again, and busied himself with his notebook, working on a few hasty sums to divide his current coin by how much further he had to travel. Geralt had looked the same as ever, uninjured and only dusty from the road. Just the sight of him again was something he had never hoped for, and Jaskier committed it to memory for all the long years ahead. It was good to see, but Jaskier didn’t reflect any further on it and settled to his work. He was no stranger to sleeping rough if necessary by now, and he always earned more the closer to Redania he travelled, where more people had heard of him, so rationing coin wasn’t a major worry at this point, just a sensible precaution when travelling alone.

He was startled out of his long division by a tankard being set down on the table. Geralt stood there, white hair shining in the candlelight. 

‘Sorry, did you want the table?’ Jaskier reached for his lute and packed up his notes as quickly as he could manage. It was rather full in here tonight, and he could do his work just as well up in a room.

‘No.’ Geralt sounded inscrutable as ever, and Jaskier halted his shuffle off the bench and dared a glimpse of his face. Yellow eyes bored back into him, and Jaskier slumped down in his seat again awkwardly.

‘I wanted. To apologise.’ Said Geralt swiftly and motioned at the tankard of ale. Jaskier was taken aback, but accepted the peace offering with only slightly shaky hands. He didn’t quite follow what was happening but blankly defaulted to the etiquette lessons that had been drilled into him in his youth. 

He stood sharply and swept a deep courtly bow to the Witcher, baring his vulnerable neck. 

‘I am undeserving of your apology, but for the good you have done for me I would repay your kindness. Please allow me to buy you a drink in turn.’ He felt stiff, and the formalities allowed him a distance he could try and think through. 

Never in his wildest half formed dreams had he imagined seeing Geralt so close again, let alone the man apologising to him for something that had been so long coming. The least he could do for his old travel companion was an ale or something. It was a poor offering for everything Geralt had done for him, and he hung between trying to express his gratitude and trying to leave the man in peace, as he had requested. It was churlish to refuse such a boon as his presence without even having to beg for it, and Jaskier settled for smiling openly up at Geralt as he had so many times before.

Geralt stared back unblinkingly, and then nodded and sat down on the bench opposite his in one graceful manoeuvre. Jaskier scrambled out and caught the barmaid’s attention as swiftly as he dared, using half his remaining coin to buy Geralt a dusty bottle of strong dwarvish liquor, and bore it back to the table before he had a chance to catch his breath. He set it down in front of the man and hesitated as to whether to sit down again himself. He felt awkward in his skin in a way he hadn’t in years, too aware of how much even Geralt’s kindness could bear.

‘Sit down Jaskier.’ Said Geralt, exasperation audible. He sank down on the bench again and shifted his own tankard between his palms nervously. Normally he would fill the silence with as much chatter as he could, but he was too wary of shattering the tentative peace.  
Geralt raised his bottle in a toast, and Jaskier smiled and sipped his ale. Geralt ignored the glass entirely and drank deeply from the bottle. 

Jaskier let his gaze roam over the rest of the tavern, idly people watching. It felt safer than meeting Geralt’s gaze again, and he honestly couldn’t think of anything to say.

The silence around their table simmered for long minutes, and then settled. Jaskier’s pen scratched quietly into his notes as Geralt made his way steadily through the bottle. Periodically he felt the man’s stare on his face, but he lost himself in a half-finished sonnet, calmly appreciating the peace of a thousand past campfires.

He didn’t feel the need to frantically try and hold the Witcher’s attention as he once had, knowing that their time together was over, and savouring this chance meeting while it lasted. They would once again go their separate ways in a few hours, but he could pretend it was any other night in any tavern in their travels for a few lovely moments, before he had realised how unwanted his presence had been, the nostalgia bitter and a sweet relief all at once.

Geralt sighed eventually, and Jaskier glanced at him briefly, half his mind still spinning through synonyms. 

‘The last wish.’ Geralt murmured. ‘I bound our fates. She found out… I was angry.’ 

Jaskier’s thoughts whirred. He abandoned his poetry and rested his elbows on the table. His companion was mourning the loss of the love of his life, and Geralt needed the paltry comfort he could offer. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we need to get you more to drink.’

Jaskier hadn’t dared voice his opinion on the actual wish itself, and it wouldn’t do any good even if he had. The best he could do was ply the Witcher with liquor, a formidable task at the best of times, and help him drown his sorrows.

He bought another bottle of liquor and began a long and amusing story of a noble he had once known, and the man’s amorous misadventures with a pair of identical twins. Jaskier resumed his role as entertainer, and Geralt seemed glad to take his mind off things.

Two hours later, Jaskier’s well of stories hadn’t run dry, but Geralt’s bottles had. There were a few people left downstairs, but Geralt’s gaze was vaguely unfocused and he listed to one side. 

‘Have you got a room?’ said Jaskier. Geralt produced a brass key from his pocket and stood, scraping the bench back sharply. Jaskier scrabbled for his belongings and ducked under the Witcher’s arm, bracing him as Geralt meandered up the stairs, leaning heavily on Jaskier to keep his balance.

They managed to get into the room without any incidents of property damage, and then as soon as the door shut behind them Geralt was on him before he could blink. His mouth crashed into Jaskier’s, and Jaskier froze, his lute falling from trembling hands as lust boiled through him. Geralt picked him up effortlessly and pushed him against the wall, rolling his hips and leaving a wet trail of bites down Jaskier’s neck. 

Jaskier’s mind shattered against this onslaught. He had yearned for this for so long, and his body knew the motions so well he responded automatically for long gasping seconds as his cock filled urgently. This was wrong. Geralt was drunk, and more importantly, didn’t want Jaskier. He was confused, seeking to vent his grief at losing Yennefer in another’s body, and Jaskier was convenient, and notoriously slutty. Geralt was turning to him for comfort, and Jaskier’s heart wobbled briefly in his chest.

He pushed at Geralt’s shoulder ineffectually and broke into shivers as he felt Geralt’s length press against him. 

‘Geralt, you don’t want this.’ He managed, gasping for air, guilt stabbing at him and diffusing the madness of arousal.

Geralt bit gently at the sensitive skin of his ear and Jaskier’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head.

‘Need you, Jask…’ Geralt grunted, and made for the laces of Jaskier’s breeches. 

‘Are you sure?’ Jaskier said, resolve weakening. This would be the last time he ever saw Geralt, and to finally be able to touch him would tempt a much greater man than he.

‘Shut up for once.’ Geralt growled into his ear, and Jaskier was done resisting. He batted Geralt’s hands away from his trousers and shoved him over towards the bed as forcefully as he could manage. It probably didn’t even register to Geralt, but he allowed himself to be moved, and sank down on the bed. 

Geralt was laid out like a feast, but the room was dark, and he could make out the occasional pale line of his body, which was enough to work with. He unlaced Geralt’s breeches swiftly and wrapped his mouth around Geralt’s cock. He bucked and those powerful hips flexed, but Jaskier rode it out with patience borne of long practice. Geralt made an attempt at pulling Jaskier up to meet him, but Jaskier merely pulled his mouth off briefly and murmured, ‘Let me take care of you.’ 

His bones ached with wanting, but this was about Geralt, pleasing him and relieving some of the loss he must be feeling. Geralt was all that made the world good, and he was brimming over with love for the man, wild with it and desperate for anything he could do to help.

Geralt slumped into the bed, hands feverishly gripping Jaskier’s short hair, and he concentrated all his skill on making it as good for Geralt as he could possibly manage it. He settled swiftly into the right mindset, relaxing his throat and stifling the urgent reflex to gag as Geralt thrust sloppily into his mouth and groaned. His eyes watered, and he could barely make out the man on the bed past the tears clinging to his eyelashes. 

Guiltily, he stored up every feverish impression in a warm and sunlit part of his mind, memorising how his love tasted and felt in his own mouth. He didn’t try to tease, nor use any of his usual tricks, simply let himself be a warm and willing hole to be used, and within scant minutes Geralt was pulling his hair at the roots, and forcing his cock as deep as it could get, and the tang of bitter salt was pouring down Jaskier’s throat. 

He didn’t try and extend the moment past bearing, only indulged himself in one last taste to clean Geralt off a bit and tucked his softening cock back into his smallclothes. By the time he had wiped his eyes and gathered himself enough to look up at the Witcher, Geralt was asleep. 

His knees ached, and the chill of the room seeped through his clothes. He felt small and cold, and terribly lonely. For twenty years he had daydreamed idle fantasies of Geralt seeking out his bed, but never like this, as a replacement for someone else. His shoulders slumped, and he quietly reached for his bedroll and curled himself up tight in the corner of the room, exhaustion and guilt too much to bear.


	2. A Songbird in a Bower

He awoke at dawn, Geralt still slumbering on the bed, and had several moments of chilled panic before he managed to calm himself. He let himself drink in how beautiful the man looked, soft with sleep, fiercely glad the last sight of him wouldn’t be twisted with rage. Best to leave before he outstayed his welcome again. He was brittle with the relief that at least he was aware of it now, that he could depart before he was made to. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to endure the man he loved sending him away again, not without regaining some distance first. His jaw still ached from the previous night, and he hoarded his precious memories of Geralt’s touch to treasure later. Jaskier gathered his belongings quickly and quietly and slipped out of the room on silent feet.

He didn’t pass the stables without greeting Roach again and slipped her the last of the tattered sugar cubes still lingering without use in the bottom of his pack. He bade her look after her Witcher as well as she always did, and set off down the dusty road, one hand lingering at his throat to press against the marks Geralt had bitten into his skin, and wishing they would last forever.

He was lost in composing by mid-morning, beautiful phrases sleeting through his head thick and fast enough to slow his footsteps. He regained enough awareness to realise he should get off the road lest he stumble, and found a sturdy bower of sunlit branches some ways off the ground to lie in and scrabble down notes before the fever lost him. He was dimly aware of a horse passing on the road below him, but song-struck as he was, he could only wave a hand distractedly and sank back into trilling out as much of the melody as he could before it escaped his grasp. Sometimes writing songs was grit and toil, piecing together fragments of inspiration, and sometimes it was golden and easy, words ringing through him without an anchor.

He resurfaced from the haze some indeterminate time later, the song as perfect as it would get for now, and stretched his aching muscles with a sleepy moan, stiff from being in one position in so long and his fitful night’s sleep. He got the shock of his life when he heard Roach’s familiar whinny from close by, and his grip on the branches loosened in surprise.

He fell out of the trees, already closing his eyes for impact and twisting to get his head away from the ground. The landing was rather softer than he’d expected. He opened his eyes to very recognizable armour, and realised Geralt had caught him in his arms like a swooning maiden. Golden eyes gazed down at him, rather bemusedly, and he realised with some horror that he was blushing madly.

He babbled his apologies to Geralt, embarrassed at his own clumsiness. Rather than being set down and shouted at, he was baffled into silence at the Witcher carrying him over to Roach’s back and sliding him gently into the saddle. He sat there, staring open-mouthed as Geralt retrieved his lute and pack and tied them to Roach’s bags, as he had hundreds of times before. He didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on. 

Geralt merely took Roach’s reins and led them along the road, walking on without another word. 

Jaskier vaguely remembered hearing a horse and rider while he’d been writing, but that had been a while ago. Geralt must have seen him by the side of the road and waited for him to finish. He had been resigned to their separation this morning, already planning the rest of his journey to Oxenfurt, and now Geralt had upturned everything. Perhaps he had hit his head as he fell, and this was all a pleasant dream.

‘Geralt…’ he said haltingly, ‘What are you doing?’

Geralt hummed and glanced back at him. ‘There’s rumours of drowners the next town over.’ 

Jaskier simply couldn’t bear his own foolish hopes a minute more. He had been ready to accept their final parting on the mountain, and again this morning, but the uncertainty of what they had done last night and the fact that Geralt had not simply ridden by as he was distracted churned his stomach. Better to tear off the bandage now and have some control over the fallout. 

‘I meant what are you doing with me?’ To his horror his voice came out small and plaintive. He unhooked his feet from the stirrups, preparing to flee should Geralt’s patience grow short. 

Geralt drew Roach to a halt and padded over to Jaskier’s side. He placed a warm hand on his knee to steady him, and Jaskier’s fickle heart trembled in his chest.

Geralt looked up at him, and said hesitantly ‘I am sorry, about what I said. I didn’t mean it. And I want to travel together again.’

Jaskier’s smile outshone the sun. He wanted to dance with the joy of it, wanted to run and shriek and sob with the relief and scream his happiness to the world. Instead he only grabbed Geralt’s hand and squeezed it tightly, once. That was enough. That was more than enough.

The whole world was golden again, and he almost shook himself right out of the saddle, pressing a hand to his mouth to catch all the nonsense that was sure to come out of it. He only grinned fiercely and hummed the happiest songs he knew as Geralt led them steadily down the road.

After three hours of the most perfect joy Jaskier had ever felt, riding atop the Witcher’s prized steed with Geralt plodding away at his side, reality started to intrude. If Geralt can accept him back at his side, then he can send Jaskier away again. He cannot face that again, the chance of that grim future in Oxenfurt alone, banished from the Witcher’s side. If there is anything he can do to escape it, then he must. At the very least he must try his hardest to delay the inevitable, when Geralt gets sick of him again and realises Jaskier is useless.

He will do anything Geralt asks for. He would fetch the stars themselves if Geralt only asked for them. He will step up his efforts to improve the reputation of Witchers across the Continent and concentrate on that instead of letting himself be side-tracked by his love poetry. He can stop sleeping around to bury his heartache in idle distractions, and Geralt will not have to fish him out of any more messes. He wracks his brain frantically for anything else he can do, any other skills he has that might be put at Geralt’s service. 

The answer came to him that night, as they finished setting up camp and devouring a brief dinner of cold rations. 

Geralt had said last night that he needed him. To sate his lust, to drown his sorrows in another’s willing body. He was deep in his cups, but it is still the only time he has ever needed Jaskier to do anything for him. Perhaps if he offers the only other thing he is good for, then Geralt won’t leave him again. He is a poor replacement for Yennefer though, unable to compete with her beauty and poise even before travelling on dusty roads. If he just makes sure to hide his indubitable Jaskier-ness, then Geralt might be able to find solace in him.

The nerve to proposition the man fled him as soon as he dared eye Geralt though. For all that he’s had the man’s cock in his throat now – a thought that made him squirm in remembrance slightly on the log he’s sitting on- he stopped propositioning the Witcher roughly a week into their travels together, and hasn’t dared to since, for fear of losing his company. Not that he feared Geralt would react harshly, only that his companionship was by far the greater prize than one night of fun and an awkward morning after. He’s never seen Geralt with any men though, only female whores and Yennefer. He doesn’t even know if Geralt likes men, in that way, even as his fingers idly stroke his throat, still red from his attentions last night. 

His shifting has drawn Geralt’s attention, and their eyes meet across the fire. Jaskier snaps his hand back down from the lingering marks, but Geralt has already seen. His pupils look vast and endless, and he scents the air. Jaskier’s breath quickens. Faster than human eyes can track, Geralt is standing in front of him, predatory in the dim light, and anticipation shivers up his spine. He didn’t even need to broach the subject himself, Geralt sensing the arousal firing his veins. 

Geralt swoops down and kisses him then, and conscious thought flees his mind. Geralt is sober, his mouth soft and warm and nothing like the brutal passion of last night. Geralt needs this, after losing the love of his life. That thought kicks Jaskier into focus, and he shifts into concentrating on pleasing Geralt. He has so little to go on. Does Geralt want him to play the innocent or the coquette? Does he want Jaskier to beg sweetly beneath him or take charge? Does he want Jaskier’s mouth again, or his hand, or does he want Jaskier to bend over for him? Does he want Jaskier to be silent or talk to him?

Indecision paralyses him for a moment, and Geralt presses more kisses to his neck as he shudders and gasps. He knows Geralt enjoyed his mouth last night and falls back on safe ground. He sinks to his knees before the Witcher again and looks up at Geralt through long lashes. He will try his best to please Geralt before he comes to his senses and realises that he is letting a useless tagalong touch him.

‘May I?’ He asks softly, hands hovering in the air before Geralt’s fastenings. Geralt nods once, sharply, and his hands hardly shake at all as he draws out Geralt’s cock out from his smallclothes. It looks even bigger in the firelight compared to his feeble memories of the dark room last night. He lets himself taste the first delicious drops of precum gathering at the head, tongue flickering out to lap gently, and Geralt groans, watching him with gleaming eyes. Jaskier’s face is thrown into shadow, hidden from the firelight by Geralt’s bulk, and he hopes faintly that it makes it easier for Geralt to bear. He is nothing if not an excellent cocksucker, and perhaps Geralt will let him take his time with it tonight, to save his throat if he can. 

He lets the head pop past his lips, sucking and teasing at it, and works his way down as smoothly as he can, humming to himself and pressing his thumb into his fist to ease his gag reflex. He wants this to be good for Geralt, his own cock aching for release, desperate for the chance to prove himself. He uses all the tricks a lifetime of practice has taught him and is rewarded with Geralt’s hand settling in his hair. Geralt is being so patient with him, so soft in comparison with the sloppy thrusts he endured last night, and his eyes well up with the kindness of it. 

He has spent so long in love with the Witcher he is dizzy with the thought that he can have this, even for a little while, even though he is not Yennefer, even though Geralt will get rid of him again eventually. He sinks back into his task with pure joy then, hoping it will be enough, hoping that Geralt will let him do this again if he proves himself an eager bedmate. Geralt can take him any way he wants, do anything he desires, and Jaskier will only ever beg for more. He is not a beautiful and powerful sorceress, but he can spread his legs as well as any whore, and without any coin spent.

His legs are trembling with lust, gazing up at Geralt, spiralling higher and higher as he feels salt dripping down his throat. Geralt rolls his hips languidly then, never too much for Jaskier to cope with, and he dares to run his hands up the Witcher’s massive thighs in a tender caress. He is rewarded with Geralt sighing, ’Fuck, so good Jask,’, and brushes his thumb against Jaskier’s cheek. The praise sends him right over the edge, eyes rolling back in his head and cock dripping wet and untouched in his trousers. Geralt scents the air again then, and the air reverberates with the groan he lets out as he comes in Jaskier’s mouth. 

Geralt is standing and will not fall asleep as he did last night, and Jaskier has no idea how to extract himself gracefully from this situation. He settles for letting Geralt’s cock slip out of his mouth and swallowing as quietly as he can manage. Before he can wind himself up enough to brave looking up at Geralt, the Witcher pounces on him again, and kisses the taste of himself out of Jaskier’s mouth. He smiles into the kiss, feeling the satisfaction of a good job fill his bones with warmth, and lets out a soft moan of relief that Geralt will still kiss him even after he takes his pleasure, more than he dared hope for.

Geralt drifts off to bid Roach goodnight then, and Jaskier stares up at the stars from his bedroll next to Geralt’s, so happy he feels cracked open and raw with it, so grateful he could scream, and instead simply sighs with bliss and settles into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for the fucky tenses!


	3. Deep and True

Jaskier wakes with Geralt’s arm tight around his waist. He wriggles happily against the firm pressure for a moment, and then remembers that he is not Geralt’s lover. He is not even Geralt’s friend, and there is no point in taking liberties when he has to be so careful with Geralt’s limits. Before Geralt can wake and shove him away, he rolls out of bed and starts to pack up the camp. There is no point in relishing unconscious touches Geralt makes in his sleep, not when they are meant for someone else. 

Geralt soon wakes at the noises Jaskier makes, and before the morning has begun to settle around them, they are on their way again. Jaskier once again trotting along beside Roach. It was lovely to ride her yesterday, but he can count the number of times it has happened on one hand and does not expect it to happen again. They are still continuing down the road that will eventually turn to Oxenfurt, and Jaskier feels ice chill down his spine at the realisation that perhaps Geralt only means to escort him there and then leave. He never said he wanted to travel together forever, or let Jaskier tag along till he drops dead, which is what the bard would prefer. Geralt is taking him to the safety of human settlements and making sure he is not eaten by a monster on the way. Then they will part ways for good. After all, Geralt has never needed or wanted a travel companion before. He will have to redouble his efforts to be useful and lighten the load, prove himself a worthy travel companion as he promised. 

He bends to his work as they travel on, balancing a notebook and quill as he walks and tucking the ink into his trouser pocket so he can refill the nib as they go. He has to make sure that Geralt finds a warm welcome wherever he goes, his songs spreading like wildfire and changing people’s minds. That will demonstrate his usefulness like nothing else. If not a friend, then a barker and bedmate. 

It is hard toil today compared to the ease of his composition the previous day, scraping through rhyme to find something vaguely not shit, and he almost despairs at his own mediocrity. Valdo bloody Marx would have written an entire song cycle with the material Jaskier has witnessed over the past twenty years, and Jaskier can’t even compose one little drinking song. He knows his audience, knows that it is not the refined nobility or learned scholars he must write for, but the common man whose attention is caught by daring deeds and catchy choruses rather than beautiful melodies and sophisticated time signatures. He has reams of songs about Geralt, a library full of tales unsuited for the outside of Jaskier’s head. The last good thing he wrote was ‘Her Sweet Kiss’, and he would rather impale himself on Geralt’s sword than sing that song again and cause his love pain. He thanks the gods he never performed it to anyone and will not be faced with it unexpectedly on the road. 

He does not ask for any breaks, nor whine about his feet as he usually would, merely works and walks and trusts Geralt to lead them true. He is little enough use at being on watch for danger, especially when the Witcher’s senses are so beyond his own. He only looks up every so often to guard his footing, and when the sun is ripe overhead, he glances at Geralt to assess his mood.

As far as Jaskier can tell, and after so long travelling with the man, what little of Geralt he knows tells him that the man is vaguely bored. 

This is something Jaskier can help with, entertainment on the road. He cannot haul Geralt off Roach and pleasure him, nor can he babble on as he used to if it annoys the man so. He must choose his approach carefully. In another life, he would have annoyed the man into a bickering argument just for something to do, or told him a story of his past, but he cannot risk being truly irritating, and he doesn’t want to bother him with dull tales the Witcher has probably heard a hundred times. He doesn’t know what to say. He wracks his brain furiously for long minutes. They have very few shared interests to discuss- Geralt’s monster hunting the reason their companionship exists at all- even fewer shared acquaintances, as they have only met Geralt’s friends on their travels and none of Jaskier’s. He cannot enquire about anything without prying into the Witcher’s personal life, and the boundaries have been drawn too firmly there for Jaskier to risk. He blinks, and realises he has nothing to say to the man he loves. Geralt prefers silence anyway, he tells himself, and settles back into his composing a little sadder than before. 

As the afternoon wears on, the next town grows visible in the distance, and Geralt breaks his own silence to confirm that this is where the rumoured drowners are to be found. Jaskier dares to ask, clutching his quill tightly with nerves, whether Geralt will hunt for them that day.  
A hum of agreement is all he gets, and it takes long minutes for his fists to unclench and relax.

When they reach the town, Geralt settles Roach into the stables, and Jaskier heads straight into the inn to begin bargaining. He is unsure whether Geralt would prefer a room together, so that he might reach for Jaskier easily, or whether he wants his own space after putting up with him all day on the road. He springs for two rooms, just in case, and resolves to make himself available when Geralt returns from his hunt. 

Geralt slopes off to deal with the drowners, and Jaskier remains at the inn, not getting in the way or dividing the man’s attention. He wants to curse at his own past foolishness, eagerly trailing behind Geralt for every hunt, forcing the Witcher to protect him instead of dispatching monsters as quickly and easily as he can. The feeble excuse of inspiration for his songs was just that, and he has seen enough drowners killed to write a thousand of his mediocre ballads.

Arranging for Geralt’s dinner and bath to be brought brings its own problems. Jaskier has been in this town before, he realises, as the blacksmith’s lovely daughter welcomes him with a warm smile and fluttering eyelashes. They spent a very pleasant night together at this very inn last autumn. Dark eyes watch him at the bar, and she begins to follow him up the stairs to the rooms with swaying hips. Jaskier panics. He must not be a burden, must not let Geralt fish him out of his own messes. 

He turns to her and bows deeply. ‘Annika, you are as lovely as the stars above, but I cannot please you as I once did.’ She raises an eyebrow at him, and giggles coquettishly.

‘You will promise not to tell anyone? Please, I must have your word.’ Perhaps he is laying it on a bit thick, but the drama of the moment requires it. The smile slides off her face, and she leans in, curious now.

‘I have been afflicted with a most terrible curse, and am incapable of rising to the occasion, if you catch my meaning.’ She gasps, eyes shining with delight at the scandalous gossip, and promises very prettily that she will not tell a single soul.

Once safely back in his own room, Jaskier lets out a deep sigh of relief. The same routine in a few more towns, and then rumour will spread of its own accord. He will not find a willing partner for love nor money, once word of the famous bard Jaskier’s amusing misfortunes gain traction. Geralt will not have to save him from the consequences of his own actions, and he will not imperil his position at the Witcher’s side. It is a trifling price to pay, puncturing his own reputation. 

He sings for their supper as usual, performing with all his heart until the lute strings bite into his fingers, and then he sings some more. Jaskier sings his usual classics, abandoning his laborious efforts of the road until they are truly perfect. He cannot debut drivel, not when every performance might be his last chance. Geralt stamps in as he finishes his encore, ablaze with the thrill of attention and cheers.

He leads the Witcher up to his room and supervises the production of the bath and Geralt’s hard-earned dinner with as little chatter as possible. Geralt has only sustained one injury, and a minor one at that, compared to some of the horrors he has endured. His arm is scratched below the joins of his armour, and Jaskier must risk the progress he has made so far to offer his assistance. He cannot simply leave the man he loves in pain alone. 

He fetches the salves and bandages and Geralt allows him to clean off the wound and stitch it. He gives fervent thanks for the winter spent practicing his stitches by candlelight on the butcher’s leavings. He is much neater and quicker than his first fumbling attempts, but his gratitude is banked swiftly. If Yennefer were here, she could heal any injury with a wave of her hand. Instead Geralt must suffer second rate medicine practiced by a foppish musician. There is no arena in which he can outshine her, and the sooner he reckons with that, the better. 

He retreats swiftly to his own lodgings, letting Geralt eat and bathe in peace, and attends to his own preparations. If Geralt wants him tonight, he will not be satisfied with another cocksucking. His own famed skill as a lover demands it. He must live up to his reputation and please Geralt as well as he can. He prepares himself quickly, slicking himself with oil and opening himself up so he is as ready as any tart.

Sweat sheens on his brow as he writhes, caught in his own pleasure. He will take Geralt for the first time tonight, if the Witcher desires it, and excitement thrills through him. If he had hoped-imagined-wished for their first time to be somewhat different, then that is his own failure. He cannot expect his romantic delusions to be realised. Competition with Yennefer never worked in his favour even when she was present, let alone when she is the ideal of love lost in Geralt’s mind. He bound their fates together eternally after knowing the witch for less than a day. He banished Jaskier from his side after two decades of travels together. That is all that needs to be said on the subject.

Jaskier is as prepared as he can manage. He shucks his trousers back on, and nerves and lust war in his belly until he feels half-sick with the combination. The door to Geralt’s room looms ahead of him, and he doesn’t let himself falter, just knocks on the door and breathes in shallow heaves as he awaits Geralt’s pleasure. 

The door opens, and Geralt is staring down at him for one uncertain moment. He opens his mouth to begin stuttering apologies, and then Geralt grabs for him and slams him against the wall. The door swings closed behind them, and he is pressed against the Witcher’s body and kissed hungrily. Geralt surrounds him, his bulk drowning out the rest of the world, and Jaskier kisses him back desperately, gasping out moans and trying to swallow the pretty little trills the Witcher coaxes from him with unerring skill. 

Geralt pulls back from him, eyes roving over Jaskier’s flushed face, his lips plump and wet, and he hopes he is pretty enough to tempt the Witcher further. 

‘I’ve never. With a man.’ Geralt grinds out, looking as sheepish as Jaskier has ever seen him, and his heart melts in his chest.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of everything.’ He pats the Witcher’s arm for reassurance, bravery suddenly easy in the face of the White Wolf’s uncertainty.

He makes his way to the bed and bends over it in a display of confidence he summons from a thousand nights performing. He pulls his trousers down to just beneath the curve of his buttocks, exposing only his entrance for the Witcher to use as he will. Any more of his pasty skin would repulse the man, too jarringly different from Yennefer’s unblemished bronze. He waits, trembling. Geralt’s footsteps approach the bed behind him, and he tries frantically to work out what to do next. He is vulnerable and raw, the chill air of the room ghosting over him, and every second longer jangles his nerves. Does Geralt want him to beg for it?

He turns his head to the side, extending the line of his throat, and sees a glimpse of the Witcher behind him, looking at him, the whore awaiting his every pleasure with legs spread on the bed beneath him. He manages a soft ‘Please,’ and then the Witcher is on him. Huge hands slip under his shirt and caress down his spine, and then his cheeks are spread so the Wolf can better regard his offering. He has not lain with a man in some time, so he hopes he will be good enough to please. He hears Geralt unbuckle his trousers, and then the searing hot line of his cock presses against Jaskier’s hole. 

Geralt fucks into him, and the pain is so good that Jaskier forgets himself and wails with it. The force of that massive cock burns and he is pinned to the bed, bearing down and fucking himself back as much as he can, relishing the agony as the best penance possible. It leaves him defenceless and gasping, wishing feebly that Geralt would rend him apart in truth, discarding the unpleasant parts of Jaskier and reshaping him to the Witcher’s desires, soft clay in his hands. He wants to be good so badly, aches for any meaningless praise Geralt will spare him, and lust boils through him so deeply he whimpers and lets the words fall out of his mouth. He begs for more, pleas falling from his lips in soft whines, and Geralt’s arms cage him, the weight of his body pressing him further into the bed, lips pressed against the curve of his neck. 

Geralt fucks him, and he is reduced to shaky gasps and moans as his love’s cock spears him open so brutally. He can hear it now, Geralt’s cock sliding over and over into the slick wet heat of him with wanton sloppy noises that echo through the room and make his face burn. The pace picks up, and he spreads his legs as wide as he can with his trousers still on, eagerly taking anything Geralt will give him.

Geralt groans into his neck, ‘Been waiting for this all day.’

Jaskier’s cock pulses wetly, and he manages to gasp out ‘Anytime you want. Just tell me. Anything. I’m yours.’ Geralt’s hand closes around his jaw and turns his face to kiss him. It’s sloppy and the stretch aches, but it’s worth any pain. The shift in angle presses Geralt’s cock against his prostate, sharp little jabs that make his eyes flutter closed with pleasure. Soft little moans force their way out of his throat, and Geralt grinds into him over and over. He comes, burying his trills in the sheets and trying to stifle the shameless and overeager noises every thrust hammers out of him. His whole body clenches and jerks around Geralt’s cock, and he spasms like a hooked fish in his pleasure. Geralt groans and grips his shoulders, forcing his cock in deeper, and Jaskier can do nothing but lay back and take it, surrendering utterly. 

The Witcher lets out a shallow bark as he finishes, fucking his come deep into Jaskier’s body, and sprawling his full weight over him as the aftershocks twitch through them both. Jaskier is helpless under the bulk of the Witcher. His mind is blank with pleasure, and the reassurance of Geralt’s embrace makes the lack of easy breath a trivial thing. If he could only stay here forever, in the arms of the man he loves, still open and dripping around his cock. Geralt shifts off him eventually though, easing out of his body and rolling him over on the bed. He kisses Jaskier once more, and Jaskier is helpless to do anything except smile up at him sweetly, every inch of his adoration easily read on his face. 

The Witcher kisses him again and again, soft drugging kisses lingering at his mouth, and Jaskier would let himself be mounted again eagerly if Geralt desired it. Instead Geralt gets up and busies himself by the washbasin. Jaskier rolls off the bed as smoothly as he can manage, tucking his trousers back into order and feeling the slide of come and slick down his legs. Lust prickles at him again, evidence of how good and useful he is still marking his body. He heads for the door as swiftly as he can, prudently making himself scarce before he becomes a bother. 

Geralt’s head snaps over to him as he opens the door, and he lingers for a brief moment, beaming up at the Witcher and braving a gentle ‘Goodnight Geralt.’ 

He closes the door softly and bites his lip with happiness. His own room is cold and empty, but he has done well tonight, and he hums and half-dances with joy as he undresses and cleans himself before bed. He washes himself carefully, heart full with love, and hopes that this evening has been a successful first step in his plan. Jaskier climbs into his bed and dreams pleasant dreams.


	4. Third Time Pays For All

He wakes up already singing, words spilling out of his mouth faster than he can catch and he wrestles his notebook closer before it is lost forever. Memories of soft kisses haze through his mind and his feet kick in delight as he hammers the song into form. He repeats phrases, stalking around his room in the grip of it, chanting to himself. It looks like madness to an outsider, but there is such slight difference between lunacy and genius that he resigned himself to it years ago.

A dim knock at the door attracts a small portion of his attention in the morning light, and he bellows a hearty fuck off to whoever dares disturb him. Jaskier sinks again, lute in his hands, serenading thin air with the same word again and again until the song fits, whole and perfect in his mind, trembling with the urge to be performed. 

He has done it. The song is worthy of being sung and will be a brilliant addition to his repertoire of White Wolf songs. He sings it one last time, but it needs no further editing. His mood soars, and he lets out a squeal of delight and hugs himself with glee. He pleased Geralt with his body last night, a willing bedmate, and he will please him with this song as well, a profitable barker, a worthy companion. Geralt has never been particularly effusive with his praise for Jaskier’s work before, but this will help build his reputation further. He sinks into fantasies of Geralt hearing his song and villages showering the Witcher with praises. He can be useful. He must.

When he shakes himself out of daydreaming, the morning is half gone. He comes back to his body, the deep ache from letting Geralt use him burning his rear and hunger twanging in his stomach. He scrambles into his clothes and packs as rapidly as he can. Opening the door to his room, he finds a sad looking tray of cold porridge, and pales as he remembers the knock. If the maid brought breakfast hours ago, then he has delayed Geralt. He will be furious. 

The door to Geralt’s room is ajar, and there is no sign of him nor his belongings within. His heart pounds, and he races through the inn to the stables, hoping and wishing and pleading to all the gods as he runs. 

Roach is gone. 

Geralt has left him again. 

Jaskier shivers a little in the dull breeze. 

He stares at the empty stable where Roach had settled the previous evening and blinks the tears back. He tried his best. He really did. He wracks his brain for anything else he could have done differently, to change Geralt’s mind, save throwing himself at the man’s feet and begging. Geralt would have let him stay then. Jaskier knows he would have, and that is exactly why he didn’t. 

He shivers again. He half-wishes they had not accidentally crossed paths again after the mountain, that he had not had useless hope. He would never have known the taste of his kisses. This is the third time he has had to face Geralt’s absence in his life, and he cannot breathe with it. He just needs a minute. A moment before he must bear the grief again. 

He twists his hands together and clutches his lute to himself tightly. If Filavandrel’s lute is all he has to remember Geralt by, it is more than a kingly gift. He hugs it for comfort, hot tears spilling on the case, and then he is sobbing alone in an empty stable.

When the tears run dry, he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and hide. He straightens up from his crouch and reorders his ruffled clothing, wipes the salt from his face and smiles. He is a performer, beneath it all. He can play the part of the famous bard Jaskier now when all he wants to do is howl at the world. He lets out one last pained whuff of breath and stretches his smile wider, papering over the cracks.

He strides back into the inn, grinning at the innkeeper, and a small critical part of his mind is whispering notes on his performance as he begins his act. 

‘How much for another night at this fine establishment, my good man?’ The innkeeper chuckles at him, and he has passed the first test. 

‘That Witcher of yours paid this morning.’ Jaskier allows nothing on his face to change. ’Said his coin was low, so I only let him have the one room.’ 

There is a chance. There is a chance Geralt is coming back. There is a sliver of hope that he is only on a contract, not gone forever, and suddenly the performance is real. Jaskier’s false smile aches on his face. He accepts the key, and shambles into the room they laid together in, and Geralt slept in last night.

He tries to be stern with himself, talking himself out of it over and over. He is gone; he only paid for your room out of kindness; do not look for him to return. The whirl of emotions exhausts him, and he is too numb to wind himself up anymore. As the afternoon passes, he huddles under the same sheets the Witcher kissed him on and stares up at the ceiling blankly. Either Geralt will return, or he won’t, and nothing Jaskier can do will change that in any way. He can only wait.

Once he gets sick of his maudlin longing, he resolves to carry on as he normally would if Geralt had gone hunting. He plays his lute, practicing his fingering and vocal techniques for hours. As evening draws in, he ventures downstairs to a packed inn, a bigger crowd than the previous night drawn by word of mouth of his continued presence. He is performing as the bouncy bard again, and it will while the time away as well as anything else, as well as bringing in more coin. Several girls giggle at his entrance, and he affects a downtrodden air as he passes them.

He sings his usual fare, a whirl of motion and rhythm, glee written in every line of his body, and the whole tavern sways with him as he moves. The power and praise thrills through him, lessening the anxiety of the torturous wait, and every eye is on him. The attention makes him fly, as always, gestures exaggerated for effect and using his body and pretty face to seduce a whole room at once.

The door slams open, and his already racing heart beats in double time. Geralt sweeps in, unharmed and barely ruffled, a charred head of some monster slung over his shoulder. The man he loves walks back into his life, and Jaskier bursts into gleeful laughter, too much joy to contain in one body.

He shouts, delight and pride clear in his voice, projecting to the very rafters, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the White Wolf has returned victorious. You are safe once more!’

Cheers shake the windows of the tavern, and a vast quantity of ale is spilled in toasts to his success. Geralt’s gaze wanders over Jaskier’s body, and he is helpless not to beam at the man. His joy must be shared. He rouses the whole tavern to dancing, and sings the song he wrote that morning, releasing it into the world for the first time. They shout the chorus back at him, and he is fizzing with happiness.

Geralt has found a corner to hole up in, dinner brought to his table along with several tankards of ale from grateful patrons. Jaskier bows to his audience, and their applause bolsters his nerve. He makes his way over to Geralt and throws himself onto the bench next to him as he had a hundred times before, giddy with delight. His Witcher has come back to him, and they sit in a tavern full of appreciative patrons. He has sung his wonderful new song, his lute case is overflowing with coin, and he is useful. 

Geralt bumps shoulders with him and beckons him to help himself to the ales festooning their table. He drinks deeply, having abandoned mundane concerns like sustenance in his despair. Geralt surprises him then and tells him about the Griffin he fought. Jaskier rests his elbow on the table and drinks in the sight of Geralt’s face, animated when discussing monsters as he is with so little else, nodding along and asking leading questions, smiling into his tankard as the Witcher relaxes some of the ever present tension in his body and starts to gesture out the fight, demonstrating blows. He probably looks besotted, but the man he loves is in fine form tonight, joking with him and gracing him with those smiles he’d thought were lost to him forever.

Geralt keeps him well supplied with ale, passing him a fresh tankard whenever he finishes one. The alcohol loosens his lips, and soon they are chatting away merrily, Jaskier made confident by Geralt’s celebratory mood. He slips away briefly to relieve himself and doesn’t realise how the drink has gone to head on an empty stomach until he returns, tripping over his own feet and sprawling onto the Witcher’s lap. 

Geralt steadies him with one hand spread possessively over the small of his back, rubbing small circles through the thin material of his silks. He blushes and tips his head into the Witcher’s armoured shoulder to hide his face. The room spins around him, and a hiccup escapes him.

‘Bedtime for you, I think.’ Geralt purrs, and Jaskier shivers with anticipation. He slides off the Witcher’s knee, and Geralt’s hands never leave his body, setting fire in his veins. He wobbles up to the stairs, and then the heat of Geralt’s body is pressed against his back. Before he can regain his balance, Geralt has spun him around and hauled him over his shoulder with effortless ease, carrying bard and lute and swords as if they were made of feathers. 

Jaskier wriggles once, testing his grip, and Geralt merely presses a quick smack to his rear, setting the ache from last night burning again. 

He mutters ‘Behave,’ under his breath and carries him up the stairs to their room. 

The room whirls around him as Geralt eases him down and carries on whirling even though he is on stable ground. He doesn’t feel sick, always proud of his ability to hold his liquor, but he is certainly drunk enough to feel it. He hums idle love songs as the Witcher undresses him, peeling off his layers until he stands swaying in his smallclothes. It is a bizarre role reversal, the Witcher helping him disrobe instead of Jaskier fighting with the buckles and straps of Geralt’s armour to help him bath or soothe his injuries. Geralt is so kind, he thinks, and he hasn’t stopped smiling since he walked into the inn. 

Geralt nudges him into the bed, and he spreads his legs in invitation. His oil is…somewhere around, Jaskier knows, but he can manage with spit. He allows himself to look his fill as Geralt undresses, each inch of beautiful scarred skin revealed fanning the flames of lust hotter. 

Geralt finishes stripping off quickly and crawls on top of him, the world outside his arms growing dim and out of focus. Jaskier blinks up at him, and Geralt kisses him slowly, sweet little sips of honey at his mouth. Jaskier tries to roll over and let Geralt mount him, but Geralt just pushes him onto his back again and kisses him some more, still soft and slow and deep. He lets out a confused whine, but twines his arms around his neck and surrenders, pliant and willing. Geralt slides down on the bed next to him between kisses and moves Jaskier into position above him. Jaskier grasps his intent quickly and rolls his hips against the hard line of Geralt’s cock. Geralt huffs out a breath, and Jaskier’s smile turns wicked against Geralt’s lips. 

‘Sleep.’ He says, and Jaskier freezes at once. ‘Just sleep.’ 

Geralt presses another soft kiss to his lips and then manoeuvres him into position as easily as a doll, burying his head in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and entwining their legs, Jaskier sprawled over him like a blanket. His head rings with the rejection, but Geralt has not kicked him out of bed yet, is actually holding him close with warm hands making idle circles on the small of his back. The only way he can make sense of this is if Geralt is too tired for exertion tonight after his hunt and wants him close for easy access in the morning. 

Jaskier is drunk. His head still spins even with eyes closed, his body is entwined with the man he loves, and his control slips enough that he lets himself pretend for a moment that they are truly lovers, not just a Witcher and his bedwarmer, not just a too-kind man and his useless tagalong. As slumber pulls him down, a mumble of ‘I love you’ escapes his lips, but if Geralt hears it, he does not know. He is already asleep.


	5. And Only Darkness Answers

Jaskier wakes to warm hands trailing over his body, Geralt’s cock rubbing maddening circles against his own. He doesn’t have a moment to gather his wits before spurring himself into action, scrabbling over the side of the bed to grab the oil in clumsy hands and trying to surreptitiously wipe the sleep from his bleary eyes. He dives back in seconds, swallowing Geralt’s cock to the root and reaching back to slick himself up as quickly as he can. He does a slapdash job, but Geralt’s patience has limits, and he doesn’t want to resort to spit if he doesn’t have to. Jaskier can appreciate a little pain with his pleasure, but even with oil Geralt is a struggle to take. 

He lets Geralt’s cock slide out of his mouth and slips out of his smallclothes, waiting for the Witcher to choose how to take him. Golden eyes rake over his body, and his hands clutch the bedsheets in shame, wishing he had a shirt at least to cover him instead of being bare to that piercing gaze. Geralt still reaches for him, tugs him up to straddle the Witchers massive thighs as Geralt leans against the headboard and raises an eyebrow. He has a job to do.

Jaskier wraps his hand around Geralt’s length, fingers barely meeting around it, and lines himself up. He can’t resist playing the wanton a little, teasing and rubbing the tip across his wet hole. Geralt groans beneath him, and the power of it goes straight to his head. He wants to make Geralt beg for him, wants him desperate and aching for it as Jaskier is, always has been, always will be. This is not about him though, and the cold shudder of that thought washes away the old daydreams. He bears himself down, impaled and gasping for breath as the relentless pressure spears him open, sweat glistening over his body. He cannot twist away from the pain, or buck and writhe out of the Witcher’s grasp. He only sobs, once, and works himself up and down Geralt’s cock like his life depends on it. Once fully seated, he clenches, and he can feel all at once the man he loves deep inside him, a stab of pleasure and pain so intense his legs shake with it.

He looks up at Geralt then, trying to gauge his mood, and the Witcher has his eyes squeezed tightly shut, fist clenched by his sides. Pretending it is Yennefer taking him so sweetly and obediently. It hurts, seeing his love wish he were someone else, and Jaskier wishes he were someone else too, so he didn’t have to watch it. There is no dignity in this, but his body is all Jaskier has left to offer. He bends to his task, rolling his hips with all his years of practice and remaining silent as he can so not to break the illusion. It is damned hard to do so, Geralt’s cock the finest he’s ever had, let alone the man it belongs to. The lust is still there, will never leave him as long as he has eyes to look at Geralt, but it hurts. His heart is a small and resilient thing by now, cracked by hundreds of tiny heartbreaks, but this still hurts. 

Geralt reaches for him then, impatient with Jaskier’s pace, and grips his thighs tightly. He lifts Jaskier up, until only the tip of his cock is left inside, and then slams him down so quickly he yelps with it. There is nothing he can do to quieten himself, bouncing on Geralt’s cock and squeaking with every thrust. Geralt manhandles him so easily, capable hands slamming him up and down, hammering his prostate until he is bucking and thrashing, shaking to pieces and head lolling back helplessly, given over to the pleasure entirely. He wails as he comes, and Geralt slows his frenzy, pushing Jaskier until he is stuffed full of cock again and grinding into him. The heat of Geralt’s come inside him makes him flush with the thought, lungs heaving for air, and he can feel it slipping out of him, even stuffed full as he is. 

Guiltily he thinks to himself that if Yennefer was stupid enough to give this up, then she can deal with the consequences. It is Jaskier who the White Wolf beds now. 

He feebly blinks his eyes back open and waits for the Witcher to release his grip. Instead, Geralt is smirking at him wickedly, and shock pulses through him as he realises that Geralt is still hard inside him. He climbs off Geralt’s thighs carefully, relishing the feeling of his cock slipping free, and rolls onto his hands and knees, as his legs shake with exertion. Geralt fucks him again, rutting madly, and Jaskier only begs and pleads for more and more. Geralt fucks him over and over, though Jaskier is soaked with sweat and trembling beneath him, sore and marked with bites, every muscle aching, overstimulated past the point of return, babbling praise falling from his lips uncontrollably, until even a Witcher’s stamina is sated. 

Jaskier is covered with sweat and come, too feeble to even lift his head off the bed. He sinks into a fugue, head blissfully silent, exhausted beyond the point of worrying what Geralt wants from him. He stares up at the ceiling unblinkingly, and the soft trickle of water and a washcloth over his body barely stirs his awareness. Geralt sinks onto the bed beside him, and he dozes the morning away.

They set off from the inn after a hearty lunch, Roach kicking her heels with impatience. 

Nothing changes in their usual travel behaviour - neither of them speak of Jaskier’s new role as bedwarmer, and Geralt is his usual taciturn self. Jaskier speaks less, concentrating on composing until words dance behind his eyelids when he sleeps. During the daylight hours they are barker and Witcher, unless Geralt gets that glint in his eye that Jaskier swiftly learns means he wants to be pleased.

Jaskier has always been a quick learner and soon adapts to being pulled off the road and kneeling to suck Geralt’s cock whenever the mood strikes him. Geralt always seems pleased by him, every smile making him feel like he could float, and he makes sure to swiftly take his own pleasure in hand to save the Witcher from offering. Geralt is obsessed with fairness and too noble for his own good. He would offer to touch Jaskier’s cock, though it will shatter the illusion of Yennefer completely, and Jaskier cannot lose this.

He wants the separation as well- the transactional nature of their coupling reminding him better than anything exactly where his place is. Two paces behind Roach, as Geralt allows it; a willing hole to fuck, as Geralt allows it. He cannot handle the Witcher’s touch being anything other than lust-filled, lest he read too deeply, hope too hard, shatter his own heart with every kiss Geralt presses to his lips. 

His dreams of love are ashes around him, and yet he has Geralt in his bed. It is like stepping through a strange mirror-world where everything he ever desired in his furtive lust is his to enjoy, and yet it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. To be ungrateful, on top of all his other failings, is the last straw, and Jaskier vents his selfish sorrow in the only outlet he has left, his songs. 

He will not complain about anything to Geralt anymore, though he used to whine and moan about even the stars in the sky, bending the Witcher’s ear about anything that came into his head. He does not let any negative thoughts pass his lips, though some small part of him misses being able to talk to a friend. Not a friend, he reminds himself, never friends. 

He toils away at his music instead, scribbling frantically to earn his keep as a barker. He doesn’t sound out the songs on his lute as he used to in case he disturbs Geralt overmuch. Geralt will occasionally deign to ask him what keeps him so busy and quiet, and he only ever laughs and says inspiration has been kind to him recently. Sometimes all the work falls right away and the golden song-struck haze catches him again, slowing his steps until he tilts straight into the madness, music humming through him like fire, dancing to rhythms only he can hear, composing epics with such ease it must be what real love truly feels like.

He always comes back to himself hours later, a body again instead of a tune, ink scrawled on his arms where he ran out of paper, Geralt watching him dance through a clearing with an amused smile, patiently waiting on his antics instead of leaving him defenceless, and gratitude hits him in such a rush he can only sink to his knees in front of the man and thank him the only way he can.

Aside from those glowing moments where success lends him courage, Jaskier never initiates sex himself, never dares reach out to the Witcher in case he reads the man wrong. He has made so many mistakes with Geralt, thinking they were friends for twenty years not the least of them, and he does not trust himself to read the man truly as he once thought he could. He does not want to make a mistake and find himself alone again. He always waits for Geralt to reach for him, slightly anxious that each time will be the last but the Witcher must truly miss Yennefer, because Jaskier ends up taking Geralt’s cock nightly.

He supposes that he is convenient, and their bedrolls end up nestled together so that Jaskier can spread his legs by the fire before they sleep, or in the morning hush at dawn. They develop a routine of sorts, Geralt sloping off into the woods to hunt for their dinner, and Jaskier will prepare himself, using the time to make himself as wet and open as possible in order to let Geralt have him more easily, and spare himself as much pain as he can. After such consistent and repeated fucking, he can take Geralt’s cock more easily, but the initial breach always makes him want to buck and scream. 

He works out that Geralt enjoys the scent of himself on Jaskier’s body, Witcher senses marking him as thoroughly claimed, and he often scents Jaskier’s neck and rumbles deep in his throat with satisfaction. Every time Geralt fucks him, he is left dripping wet with come, filthy inside and out, and the feeling prickles at his skin for hours afterwards until all he wants to do is scrub his skin clean, craving his old soaps and perfumes to at least douse the unvarnished scent of sex and sweat a little, but they hardly stopped often enough to bathe for Jaskier’s tastes even before he started bending over for Geralt, and he wants to shriek with it, unclean and unworthy, filth coating his bones and come trickling down his thighs as he walks, expression placid as anything.

Geralt is reticent at first, barely speaking a word save the occasional harshly grunted ‘Fuck’ when Jaskier manages to surprise with his skill, but he starts to praise Jaskier during their coupling, sending his head spinning straight into madness.

He is screwing into Jaskier one night, teasing him and letting Jaskier babble pleas beneath him and he says, ‘Fuck, you’re taking it so well.’ Jaskier is shocked over the edge all at once, comes untouched beneath him, before half of Geralt’s cock is even inside him, and then Geralt is chuckling and whispering filthy praises in his ear, growling about how Jaskier was made for his cock, how sweetly he takes it, dripping wet as any tart, and Jaskier pants, blushing hotly and squirming on Geralt’s cock, fucked open and gagging for it. 

He has opened the floodgates then, and Geralt uses his newfound knowledge to drive Jaskier to madness each night, kissing praise into his skin and murmuring about how pretty he looks stuffed full of cock, wriggling on the Witcher’s lap as Geralt sits by the fire looking as calm and collected as always. 

He cannot beg the Witcher to stop, he cannot ask. He will let Geralt take any pleasure he can in his body, would let him do anything he asked for. He can only surrender to it, but the praise may break him. It hurts worse than anything. 

A kind word from the man he loves. All he has craved for years, offered to him so easily. But only when they fuck. Only when Jaskier lays down for him. It is all he is good for now. Instead of playing the whore for the man he loves, he starts to feel like one. 

It should be an easy bargain for being able to stay with Geralt; the free use of his body, and the sweet words make him insensible with lust every time Geralt utters them, but that is all they are. Words. False spurs to drive him on faster, thrust back harder, keen louder. Geralt does not truly mean a word of them. After they finish, he rolls back into his blankets, cold and used, staring up at the stars as Geralt sleeps beside him, close enough to touch and a mountain between them.

Geralt calls him good in the deep of night, whispers it in the dark with not a soul for miles, a dirty secret muttered against his racing pulse, and Jaskier is useful and good and wanted, and then the harsh light of dawn breaks over the forest, dashing his hopes to shreds. He wakes to the knowledge that he is a paltry replacement for a powerful sorceress again, forcing the sorrow into his bones.

He follows Roach for miles on aching feet through a grey world where he is a nuisance and burden, a hindrance to be snapped at should Geralt’s mood sour, berating himself silently for hours for letting the praise Geralt speaks in the grip of his lust go to his head, promising himself it will be different that night, that he won't let himself believe a word, frantically scratching out useless rhymes and insipid melodies, scraping his nails over his filthy skin, waiting for dusk when he hopes Geralt will touch him and smile at him, the days starting to blur together…. 

and his heart is cracking at the seams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for a thousand hits!! i thought i'd give you guys a lovely reward of smut! and PAIN! *cackles madly*


	6. Run Boy Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted chapter five and went to sleep - by the time i woke up Julliel had made this MASTERPIECE OF ART??? i stg i screamed and ran to show my mother and have been boasting madly all day! it is so so so beautiful and i am now julliel's barker - but not a sad one like poor jaskier is right now! - please take a peek at this  
> [MASTERPIECE](https://julliel.tumblr.com/post/624231671425908736/jaskier-is-not-a-very-good-replacement-for)

Jaskier is dancing in a glittering court with his love, eye to eye, as equals.

He is cutting down monsters at Geralt’s side, protecting him from a mortal blow, and Geralt kneels before him and kisses his hand in gratitude.

He is riding Roach with Geralt’s sturdy weight behind him, safe in loving arms.

A cruel voice hisses in his ear, Yennefer’s glittering eyes haunting him, and she whispers ‘Jaskier’ disdainfully as she did before the mountain.

‘Is this the best your mortal mind can dream of?’ She stands, tall and immaculate, icy as snowmelt, and the dream twists around her. Now Geralt is beneath him, and Jaskier is the one fucking into him brutally, using him mercilessly, and Geralt is screaming, and Jaskier does not know or care if it is with pain or pleasure.

Jaskier wakes screaming. 

Roach startles and whinnies, and Geralt is already grabbing for his sword as Jaskier wheezes and retches. Geralt snaps his head around, searching the darkness around them for any threat he can sense. He crowds Jaskier behind him, sword raised protectively, but there is nothing to fight.

Jaskier shudders with the lingering horror of the dream, and Geralt drops his prized sword to the ground abruptly and drags him into a tight embrace. He fights it at first, weakly scrabbling his arms against the firm hold, wanting to run for miles and scream until he chokes. He wants desperately to throw himself into the nearest lake, sink under the first shock of icy cold and feel the peace beneath silent water.

Geralt wrestles him onto his lap, whether he likes it or not, and Jaskier is suddenly bitter with it. He is in no fit state to let himself be fucked tonight, and feral rage coils through him so suddenly he would rather bite Geralt’s cock clean off than suck it obediently. 

Geralt only strokes one massive paw through his hair then, and hums softly in Jaskier’s ear. The Witcher is humming ‘Toss a Coin’, and as the tune reverberates through his bones, he calms slowly, fury and horror and adrenaline fading. He relaxes, and slumps into Geralt’s embrace, exhausted with the relentless pattern of worry and fear his mind tries to take him down. Geralt’s heartbeat thumps so slowly, filling the world, and he times his breathing to its steady pace, musician to his core.

Geralt’s free hand makes the familiar shape of Igni, and their campfire swells back to life. He shivers, the warmth of the fire chasing away the cold, and nuzzles closer to the Witcher’s warm body. Geralt tips his jaw up carefully then, gentle like he holds something fragile in those strong hands, and Jaskier blinks as he presses a soft kiss to his nose. Jaskier meets his eyes then, and Geralt cocks his head patiently. ‘If you want to talk about it...’ His voice is hushed, firelight dancing across his face.

Jaskier smiles and tries to joke ‘You’re asking me to talk?’

‘You’ve been quiet recently. And you haven’t played in a while.’ Geralt murmurs. ‘I know I’m not good at this. But if you wanted to talk, I’m here.’

Jaskier drops his gaze, finding it hard to meet Geralt’s eyes. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He cannot bear his foolish desperation to stay by Geralt’s side. If the Witcher prefers, he will jape and joke and play the fool as he used to, but he cannot work out what Geralt wants from him. His silence, then his voice? What will make Jaskier worth keeping? He cannot untangle the tragedy of him loving Geralt and Geralt loving Yennefer and Yennefer loving only herself even in his own head, let alone aloud. Tiredness washes through him.

Explaining that his devotion is eating him alive will only hurt the man he loves. Geralt knows he has Jaskier’s love, his loyalty, his body and soul. He cannot refuse the only drabs of affection Geralt can offer him. His heart belongs to another, and Jaskier is greedy and grasping for anything he can get. The tentative companionship they are building will be shattered if he voices any of this, and then Jaskier will be alone again. Loving Geralt hurts him and he is heartsick and sore with it but losing him will hurt more.

Jaskier only shakes his head. He is tired, but he dares to kiss Geralt then, pouring everything he can into the kiss, his love and life and body and soul for you, always for you. It is enough Geralt knows he is loved, even though it is not a love he wants. His eyes fill with tears, and he presses their foreheads together, thinking how lucky he is to know and love this man. They settle then, Geralt pulling a blanket over them and watching the flames as Jaskier fades into sleep, safe in his arms.

The next morning Jaskier is determined to ease Geralt’s worries. Geralt had mentioned how quiet he was, and implied that he wanted Jaskier to talk more again. He tests the waters, remarking on a clump of wildflowers at the side of the road, a meaningless comment easily ignored, should Geralt prefer. Instead, the Witcher huffs and hides his smile, those broad shoulders lowering an inch from coiled tension. 

He allows his dim and hollow self to hide then, Jaskier the performer taking over. He is the bouncy bard once more, cheerful entertainer draped in silk and smiles. He watches himself very carefully, every extravagant gesture calculated, Geralt’s every tiny shift in expression as revealing as an audience applauding or jeering. It is a delicate balance, to entertain without annoying, to babble on about nothing of substance, to bicker without spurring Geralt’s real anger. He has seen it once and cowers at the mere memory. 

At least before the mountain, Jaskier could be honest. Every word he told the Witcher was truth, every thought shared with a friend that he thought was listening. Now he lies with every breath. He chatters happily as he once did and takes solace in playing his lute again between conversations, an interval where he can find some peace in the music, though never for as long as he would truly like.

He performs always, only stopping when he sleeps or when true inspiration strikes, where notions of love and heartbreak cannot reach him, where he is only a song trembling to be sung, and it always aches to come back to his own feeble body and begin the show again. 

They reach the next town, and Geralt is accosted by the alderman as soon as they enter, the man trailing him up all the way up to the only inn and telling them about a nest of basilisks some miles further west. Geralt accepts the contract and Jaskier heaves a sigh of relief at the thought of shedding his false face. If Geralt want to go alone, Jaskier can just be for a while. He won’t have to play the jester or the barker or the whore; he can just be a person. Ice trickles through his blood at the stray thought, and he doesn’t allow his expression to shift. The end is coming. 

If he feels honest relief at being out of the Witcher’s sight, then he will soon start to falter. Real, true dread fills him at the thought of playing his assigned roles eternally, japing and bumbling along at Geralt’s side, moaning and grunting beneath him, begging for scraps in order not to be banished again.

The more he tires, the more slips he will make, and the more the real Jaskier will slip through the cracks. The dim and hollow Jaskier who Geralt screamed at on that mountain, the Jaskier that Geralt wanted off his hands forever. Jaskier will be cast aside sooner or later. 

He is weak and wanting. He cannot muster the strength to face that temper again, hear more shattering words and see the man he loves sick of the sight of him. He would rather go with sweet memories, some little attempt at pulling together the feeble scraps of his dignity. 

He played the stoic when Geralt chased him away the first time, and know his heart is too weak and battered to do so again. If Geralt grows weary of him, he will scream and cry and plead and beg on his knees to remain at his side. He will go with what little pride he has left.

Once more, one more final attempt to escape the pull of the Witcher before it crushes him. One more farewell, and last time pays for all. 

He will bide his time. Choose the right moment, and perhaps Geralt will even remember him fondly.

If Jaskier has wished for twenty years to feel the Witcher’s touch on his skin, then at least they both know to be careful what you wish for.

Geralt escorts him up to a room at the inn, hand possessive and searing at his back. He kisses Jaskier tenderly, and Jaskier is growing sick of the Witcher’s bittersweet kisses. Either use him as a whore or leave him be, he thinks. Geralt is cruel to do this, feed him false hope, remind him of everything he isn’t, play with his affections and toy with his heart. It may belong to Geralt alone, but it still beats in Jaskier’s chest. 

Geralt leaves him with a smile and a stern ‘Be good.’ Jaskier wants to scream at him. He is trying. 

The door shuts and the mask slides off his face. 

As soon as the Witcher leaves, he calls for a bath and scrubs himself clean feverishly, rubbed raw with it, and the water helps. The stench of sex and sweat is finally off him, and if he doesn’t smell of lilac and gooseberries then at least he doesn’t smell like a whorehouse. He sinks beneath the water, letting himself float, and he breathes deeply for the first time in what feels like years. He feels peace, alone. He doesn’t have to watch himself. It won’t be so bad, he tells himself, resigned to his fate.

Jaskier dresses again, and heads down to get some dinner, lute in hand, idly running through his setlist as he locks the door behind him. 

The door opposite his room opens. Yennefer stands there, illuminated in the sunset shining through the window behind her, and for a second, he thinks he is caught in a dream once more. He freezes. 

He is so afraid. He is so relieved. It is already over.

Yennefer eyes him and says his name exactly as she did in his dream. A shudder makes its way down his spine, and he pinches himself subtly to check.

She burns with sunlight. His opposite in every way, powerful and unbowed, and striking violet eyes meet dull blue.

He will leave now, before he has to witness their reunion.

‘Lady Yennefer.’ He manages and sweeps a courtly bow. Her gaze rakes over him, and she takes a halting step back, looking shaken.

His neck is exposed. The pale line of his throat is covered in bites, marked and claimed by the man he loves. The sorceress has always been clever.

He stretches out a hand towards her, desperate now. He cannot be the cause of Geralt’s ruin again. He cannot only bear his love misfortune.

‘Please don’t, please, my lady, he loves you.’ Jaskier begs for the man he loves, for the woman the Witcher loves, always begging for someone. ‘I only offered him comfort on the road.’ The words are sharp and ringing true. His voice cracks with honesty. ‘It meant nothing to him. He loves you.’

She steps closer, keeping her eyes fixed on his, and he knows she can read the truth right out of his head. Prays that she will listen to it. 

He waits meekly for her wrath, a mighty blow or painful spell to teach him his place.

She only touches his cheek, gently. He flinches at her hands, and she cups his face fully, his mind and heart an open book for her to see where Geralt’s heart truly lies. 

‘What has that bastard done?’ She whispers, and she is as terrifying in real life as she is haunting his nightmares. The hot copper smell of rising Chaos burns around them, and her violet eyes glow with anger. 

Jaskier will lose everything once more, the last and final time, and he hopes she has enough mercy in her to shield him from Geralt’s fury. 

The lovers will unite, and Jaskier will leave with a smile.  
Or Yennefer will tell Geralt to leave the bard behind, now she is returned to her rightful place, and Jaskier will be left with a smile.  
Or Yennefer will refuse Geralt’s love again, and Jaskier will be to blame, for taking her place in his bed, and Geralt will blame him, and Jaskier will die of it. 

His happiness depends on her. His life depends on her, and they have come full circle again, Jaskier’s own foolish wish at fault for it. He just wants some peace, and the thought almost drives him to cackling.

‘Please.’ He croaks out. ‘Anything.’

He begs Geralt, he begs Yennefer, he begs and pleads and bows and scrapes over and over and over. There is no spine left in him.

Heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs to this strange frozen tableau. Geralt climbs the top step, and Jaskier is still caught in Yennefer’s soft grip.

‘Yen.’ The Witcher says. Jaskier can see the fire alight in the Witcher again, hands poised to grab his swords.

Yennefer releases her hold on him and turns to face Geralt then, heat and copper and lilac and gooseberries rising and burning Jaskier’s throat. He doesn’t want to have to see this. 

Geralt moves faster than human eyes can follow, standing between Jaskier and Yennefer, and the poetry of it makes him suppress a bark of laughter. The end is here, and he is free of the anticipation. The relief is enough to make his head spin.

Yennefer steps up to Geralt and slaps him hard enough to throw his head back with the force of it, magic lending her strength to hurt a Witcher.

‘No, please!‘ He reaches for the man he loves, unbidden. 

‘You callous bastard.’ Yennefer spits, face transformed with anger.

Geralt shifts to shield Jaskier further, still protecting the defenceless human from forces he cannot hope to weather.

‘Please, please, please,’ falls from his lips helplessly. He is the ruin of everything he touches. Geralt will be angry and Geralt will blame him and he will not survive it again.

‘Quiet Jaskier!’ barks Geralt, eyes only for the woman he loves. The sharp words don’t hurt as much as expected, a blow he has been expecting since the inn in Redania. The end is so close he can taste it, and he braces himself.

Yennefer sends Geralt flying down the corridor with one wave of her hand. 

Jaskier runs.

Everything has crumbled around him, and he runs, only his lute on his back, scrambling out of the inn swift as his feet can carry him.

Jaskier runs out of town, desperate and free at last.

Whether the fated lovers will reunite or not, he does not know, and he does not care.

Jaskier runs into the woods, flees for his life and his sanity and his heart.

Running from love, running from pain, running from heroics and heartbreak, running from death and destiny.

Jaskier runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and commenting - i have been grinning like a besotted bard all day long and i will not fit through doors if my head gets any bigger <3


	7. Heroics and Heartbreak and Hope

Geralt stands alone on a mountain. The shrieking of the djinn’s wish grows quieter as Yennefer moves further and further away. He has never found words to describe the haze it pulls over him, how he can almost sense the web tangling his thoughts, turning his head for him a heartbeat before he means to. It spins emotions and twists his desires and he cannot trust himself anymore.

Her eyes haunt his dreams, his nightmares, his waking thoughts, and he finds no peace with her or without her. 

They only hurt each other, and Geralt could bear it if they could find solace from this curse together, if she was kind enough to grant him some smattering of peace to cling to, a calm port in the storm, but he is not what she wants and she is not what he needs.

He knows what real love is supposed to be, unforced and honest, and the only reason he does is walking away from him too.

Jaskier leaves. Jaskier always leaves. He leaves to visit Oxenfurt, to play in court, to stay with a friend, to seduce a Countess, to sleep with anyone who flutters their eyelashes at him. He leaves for warmer weather and easier travels and softer beds and any reason he can stretch into an excuse. 

But he always returns. 

He won’t this time. Geralt’s words hurt people. He is reticent with them for a reason. The amount of times he has witnessed Jaskier bristle with outrage, or Yennefer regard him coolly after an insult, the accursed wishes, the poor Child Surprise; Geralt’s words cause harm. He would walk the Path under a vow of silence if he could. He has pushed Jaskier away himself, with his own cruel words, his own monstrous hands. Their paths will no longer cross. 

The loss of that little spark of hope dims Geralt’s world more than he thought possible. Even at his bleakest moments, when his Igni was too weak to light the wet wood of his fire and blood loss froze his side, when Roach was the only warmth that would shelter him for miles, as pained and afraid of death as any creeping thing, he could dream of Jaskier’s fluttering hands soothing his wounds, that soft humming lullaby the bard would sing. He could dream of seeing him again around every corner.

To lose that comfort terrifies him, and the Path is an endless trudge to be endured once more. 

It only takes two weeks of quiet for Geralt to break. He has only two good things to his name in the whole world, his horse and his bard, and he will not give up either without a fight. Geralt was made for battle, and he has too few blessings to lose one so easily. 

Geralt is tired of trying to hide his feelings for Jaskier, of trying to push him away and lessen the blow before he loses him entirely. If Jaskier laughs in his face, then at least he will know. He can’t fuck things up more than he already has, he thinks cheerlessly. 

He hunts down the bard, following songs and stories, and finds him in a tavern near Redania, haunting music seeping through the windows to taunt him as he paces outside. Witchers don’t feel, the stories say, but fear grips his heart. Jaskier leaves so easily. Geralt has turned to an empty space so many times, the bard already dancing or joking or seducing someone else. 

Regardless, Geralt must apologise. 

He slopes in, and Jaskier doesn’t even look at him. This is how it must feel, he thinks, to be fragile and mortal again. Jaskier finishes his song as the Witcher stares, deaf to the rest of the world, and then sits at a table alone, working on his notes and ignoring him entirely.

Geralt gets a room for the night and buys an ale so he won’t have to approach emptyhanded and pushes it over to Jaskier sheepishly. Jaskier tries to leave again, and Geralt stutters out an apology. The bard is cold and formal with him, bowing as politely as he would to a stranger, but still smiles and offers to buy him a drink. Jaskier returns with an expensive bottle of liquor, finer than any Geralt could afford in months of work. The bard is hesitant to sit down again, looking for his next excuse at escape, and Geralt gives up pretence entirely and asks him to stay.

He waits. Waits for Jaskier to babble away at him, or shout with justified anger, or huff and sneer his displeasure. Jaskier’s eyes rove away from him, as always. He scribbles in his book, and glances at the other patrons. He is silent, and it sets an unexpected ache afire in Geralt, to receive a portion of his own treatment of Jaskier. Would Jaskier rather treat him as a stranger? Forget the golden years of songs and stories, pretend Geralt has never bled in his arms, pretend they have not walked this world together- Geralt will not do it. Geralt cannot. 

He has not managed to apologise as Jaskier would like or deserve, with flowery words or grand gestures, but he will try to explain. 

’The last wish. I bound our fates. She found out… I was angry.’ Jaskier looks up at him, and those bright blue eyes can see right through him. He buys Geralt more to drink, and chatters away as he used to, and Geralt is drunk on the sound, drunk on those smiles, drunk on liquor and hope.

Jaskier helps him up the stairs, and Geralt abandons dignity and sense and years of training. He kisses Jaskier as soon as they are alone. If he has lost Jaskier’s true friendship, then at least he will taste the bard’s kiss once before they part. 

Jaskier kisses him back. Sweeter than honey, alive and lusty beneath him, but he plays coy as he never has with any other bedmate. He dares Geralt to prove his affection, tells him that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want Jaskier, as if he hasn’t burned with it for years, as if he hasn’t furtively listened to Jaskier fucking or savoured his lingering scent on their bedrolls or hoarded guilty glimpses of the bard unclothed. 

He doesn’t just want Jaskier, he needs him, and the honesty is forced from him before he can regret it. 

It is at once the easiest and hardest thing he has ever said. He looked Jaskier in the eyes and lied to him before the banquet in Cintra. He needs Jaskier, and he wants Jaskier to need him. Now the truth falls from his lips heedlessly, and he abandons every lesson Kaer Morhen taught him about what he is and how he should live.

He presses biting kisses into Jaskier’s skin to claim him, and Jaskier pushes him onto the bed and sinks to his knees, pretty as a picture, and he can barely believe it. Lust and liquor boil his blood and the world is reduced to the soft wet heat of Jaskier’s mouth. His head fizzes with his climax and his joy and his drunkenness swirling around until he slumps and his eyes close entirely without his permission.

Geralt wakes alone, and curses. Jaskier has slipped his grasp again. He will follow, if Jaskier allows him. He can track songs as well as he can monsters by now, years of setting out from Kaer Morhen in spring and following the strains of music to their source under his belt. It is a strange hunt for a Witcher, but the prize at the end is worth more than anything. He didn’t get enough of Jaskier’s kisses to last him more than a moment and barely got to touch him due to his own boorish drunkenness. He will chase, and Jaskier can lead him a merry dance, but Geralt’s need is the greater. 

He clatters down the stairs, determined. He pauses to ask the innkeeper which way the bard headed, politely as he can bear while the urge to speed his steps sets his senses ablaze. He saddles Roach and lets her gallop, thundering down the road for barely a mile before he hears it.

Soft music winds through the forest, and he heads off the path to find the siren singing it. That beautiful voice, shivering through a trembling solo, leading them through the trees until he sees Jaskier. He looks fey and wild, sunlit and resting in a golden bower, enchanting travellers off the safety of the road. Geralt feels a bizarre stab of guilt for intruding on the idyll, Jaskier lounging on a sturdy branch out of reach, lithe and lovely against the cloudless sky. The bard waves a hand at him idly, and sings on, prettier than any lark that ever flew. 

Geralt settles in to wait, content to listen to his songbird trill sweet music to the heavens, recognizing the glaze in Jaskier’s eyes. It is like a trance, as he once explained it, where there is nothing but the song, and the real world falls away until the fever burns its way through him. 

Jaskier comes to himself some time later, after Geralt has had time to think a little. He stretches and lets out a soft moan, and Geralt admires the picture he makes, that elegant neck bruised by Geralt’s lips.

Roach whinnies in greeting, and Jaskier slips out of his tree. Geralt blurs forward and catches him before he hurts himself, and the bard swoons so charmingly in his arms that he almost forgets himself and kisses him again. He has to make certain of Jaskier first. 

He puts Jaskier safely on Roach so he can keep an eye on them both and starts down the road. He tries to get the words out, but Jaskier beats him to it.

‘What are you doing with me?’ He says, looking ready to slip out of sight again, and Geralt tries his best to apologise again, and clasps Jaskier’s knee so he can’t escape.

‘I am sorry, about what I said. I didn’t mean it.’ He summons his courage. ‘And I want to travel together again.’ And I want you to stay by my side, and I want to kiss you again, and I want you to love me, he thinks, and is caught unawares by his apparently deeply hidden romantic streak.

Jaskier smiles at him, and clasps his hand fiercely, the scent of fresh apples and happiness burning off his skin. Geralt is dizzy with it and beats a hasty retreat to lead them again lest he ask for more than Jaskier is willing to give. He marvels at Jaskier’s loyalty to a monstrous old Witcher, but his good fortune is a blessing he will never take for granted again. He is forgiven, and Jaskier is humming merry songs atop Roach, and the world is golden once more. 

When they make camp that night, his awkwardness returns. He does not know how to address what happened last night, when he kissed Jaskier and had his world upended by the bard’s talented tongue. He does not know if Jaskier will ever let himself be kissed again, or if that was a night of fun with a friend. He is not versed in casual affairs as Jaskier is, cannot separate his heart and his body so easily. He confessed his love, his need, his weakness as best he could, and Jaskier took him to bed, but he made a poor showing, and Jaskier has said nothing at all on the subject for someone so fond of words.

The firelight dances over Jaskier’s body and illuminates the tender marks Geralt kissed into his skin. Slender fingers trail over them seductively, and Jaskier looks at him then, the honey thick scent of lust rising thick in the air between them. He crosses the vast distance between them in an instant, delighted that Jaskier wants him again. He kisses Jaskier helplessly. He has never been in love before, and he is clumsy with it, awkward as any village youth fumbling under their first skirt. 

Jaskier sinks to his knees again, and Geralt supresses a shiver of anticipation as he coyly asks ‘May I?

He is sober, and he has to do better than gracelessly finishing in Jaskier’s mouth and not even returning the favour. Shame prickles at him, but he knows Jaskier is giving him a second chance to prove himself a worthy lover, and he is determined not to waste it.

Jaskier takes him in his mouth slowly, and every story of the bard’s famed prowess is true. Geralt has to feverishly talk himself down from spurting early like a virgin on his wedding night. He trembles, and holds still as he can manage, memorising everything Jaskier does to him in order to make use of later. He has never lain with a man before, women being an occasional expensive luxury and male whores far too costly for a Witcher. He knows a little of the practice, but Jaskier is the practiced one in this arena, for all his youth.

He lets his hands go to Jaskier’s soft hair, and it slips through his fingers like silk. Jaskier’s blue eyes gaze up at him, and that pretty mouth is wrapped around his cock, and soft words spill from his lips before he can stopper them. The thick honey-scent of lust soaks through him, and the bitter salt of Jaskier’s climax brings him to his own. Jaskier truly wants him, desires him. He can taste it in the air still, Jaskier’s cock leaking into his smallclothes, and Geralt sways towards his mouth helplessly, weak to do anything but kiss the taste of his own salt out of Jaskier’s mouth.

Geralt loses himself in the kisses, and Jaskier sighs softly beneath him. He comes back to himself and doesn’t push for more. Jaskier lounges on his bedroll, every inch of him languid and inviting. Geralt steels himself and goes to bother Roach until his heart calms.

They set off the next morning and are soon on their way to the town supposed to have a drowner problem. Jaskier is frantically writing away even as he walks, and Geralt watches him carefully lest he stumble. There are no threats he can sense on the road, but he keeps half an eye on their surroundings anyway. He is left to his own thoughts, but they are much easier to bear with Jaskier beside him. The bard does not chatter all day, and Geralt finds himself missing it sorely. He could do with some distraction from thinking dazedly about last night, sure that Jaskier will catch him lost in remembrance and be able to tell somehow exactly what is on his mind.

When they reach the town, Jaskier goes to get their lodgings while he stables Roach, the usual routine after years of travel. The bard elects to stay behind at the tavern, and Geralt is dubious about this. If he returns, and finds Jaskier entangled with another, then he won’t be able to hide his hurt. He is abruptly disgusted by his own soppy weakness, and the battle with the drowners is a blur of snarls and violence that he feels more settled after, the beast inside him soothed by the fight. He only sustains a single scratch, and before Jaskier, would have left it to heal on its own. Some cynical part of his brain whispers that he will definitely keep Jaskier’s attention with an injury, and he snorts it away. 

Jaskier will be performing by now, and he picks up the pace as he returns, stomach clenching at the idea of hordes of villagers watching his bard dance and sway, undressing him with their eyes and trying to coax him into their beds instead of Geralt’s.

He enters the inn and is relieved to see Jaskier still with his lute in hand instead of a maiden, singing cheerily, the whole room caught in his power. He can make men weep and women swoon, enchant courts and turn a hostile crowd merry, but he chooses to stay by Geralt’s side, and the Witcher burns with pride. 

Jaskier fusses him up to their room when he sees the scratch on his arm, makes sure his dinner and bath are brought, and stitches his injury with soft hands. Geralt had never known care like it before he met Jaskier, and he melts under the bard’s touches like butter.

Jaskier leaves, while he is bathing, and worry pricks at him again. Perhaps he has had better offers, from experienced lovers. Geralt has only ever fucked whores, who pretend for his coin, and Yennefer, whose touch burned even as it soothed. He scrubs himself sullenly, deliberately splashing with vigour and trying not to listen out and hear Jaskier in the act.

He gets ready for bed, and there is a soft knock at his door. 

Jaskier stands there, at the Witcher’s door, apple fresh and honey sweet. He wavers for a moment, and pulls Jaskier back where he belongs, and kisses him once more. And more, never enough. Jaskier lets out soft moans, and he wants to find out how to make more. 

He pulls away, feeling foolish, and grits his teeth. ‘I’ve never. With a man.’

Jaskier is quick to reassure him, casting no judgement, and the shame melts further away with Jaskier’s confidence. Jaskier slips his trousers down, exposing the pale curve of his buttocks, and bends over the bed in a display so provocative Geralt’s breath sticks in his throat. If he would like to take his time and lavish every inch of his skin with kisses, then that is his problem. Jaskier has offered what he is willing to give, and Geralt will never curse his fortune again. His feet drag as he moves closer, drinking in the sight of Jaskier beneath him. 

Jaskier catches his eye, and whispers a soft ‘please’, and Geralt will do anything he asks.

His hands stroke Jaskier’s back, and he caresses the bard’s own lovely bottom. He looks for the oil, as he knows men use, and sees none near. His fingers come away from Jaskier’s arse wet with slick, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head, suddenly fumbling with his belt and clumsy with desire, unpractised and desperate to be inside Jaskier before he embarrasses himself.

While he was sulking in the bath, Jaskier was opening himself for Geralt. The image strikes him viciously, and he has never felt this crazed with lust before, the rest of the world falling away. They could start a pitched battle downstairs and he wouldn’t even notice, senses hyperfocused on the man on the bed beneath him. 

He presses his cock to Jaskier’s entrance, and slides into the hilt. The feel of him is unbearable, tight wet heat, and Jaskier wails aloud beneath him, heart stuttering and fucking himself back frantically. The man he loves begs and pleads for his cock, and Geralt can deny him nothing. He holds on by sheer force of will, insufferably sensitive to his praise and pretty little sighs. He wraps Jaskier in his arms, traps him on the bed, and fucks him as hard as he dares. Jaskier only spreads his legs wider, rolls his hips back further, moans louder. He forgets himself then, dizzy with how Jaskier desires him, and groans out, ‘Been waiting for this all day.’

Jaskier gasps sweetly beneath him and Geralt loses his head entirely when he says ‘Anytime you want. Just tell me. Anything. I’m yours.’ He has to kiss Jaskier then, bent in half to reach his mouth, spiralling against his climax, grinding his cock deep as he can, and Jaskier clenches and trembles beneath him, salt sweet in the air as he comes on squirming on Geralt’s cock alone. 

Geralt has no hope of controlling himself then, and ruts madly into him until he comes inside Jaskier, finishing with a hoarse shout of pleasure ripped from his throat. He is barely able to keep his whole weight off the little bard as he collapses, trembling. He would like to keep Jaskier pinned beneath him, cocooned from the world and safe where he can see him and bury his nose in his apple-honey scent. He shifts, before he overstays Jaskier’s welcome, and kisses him again, once more, a thousand times more, never enough. 

He goes to fetch a washcloth for them both, meaning to sleep in the same bed as they have so often before, but before he can return Jaskier has tidied himself and slips out of the door with only a soft goodnight. His face falls, and the bed seems wider and lonelier than it did before, but Geralt will not push for more. 

If Jaskier can only offer him his body and not his heart, then Geralt is not foolish enough to refuse the bargain. It is Jaskier who can separate heart and body in his affairs, not Geralt, and if Jaskier will not suffer for it, then Geralt will accept anything he can give, gladly.

He does not know if Jaskier feels anything more than friendship for him, he does not know if Jaskier loves him, but he cannot ask, in case he finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh......did you think it was just going to be Jaskier getting whumped? had lots of lovely comments asking ever so politely for Geralt's POV- be careful what you wish for!  
> *cackles with glee*
> 
> every kudos you can spare goes to getting these poor soft boys the hell away from my vicious little paws, please give generously, i think i broke them.


	8. And So The Light Fades

Geralt wakes to an empty bed. It is bizarre, after living for so long in each other’s pockets, sharing rooms and beds and warmth, even as friends. It is not how he would prefer to wake up, his first morning after sleeping with Jaskier, but he is used to making do. He shivers at the memory and smiles unbidden. 

He fetches breakfast for the bard and knocks on his door. Jaskier yells at him to fuck off, and his smile falls off his face. He stands, tray in hands, feeling small and foolish. He has gone too far, and Jaskier has reached the end of his patience. He sets the tray down outside the door and his heart sinks to the floor with it. 

He stops, catching a hum. He can hear Jaskier singing through the door, pacing in his room, the same three notes over and over. He hovers in the corridor until he is certain – Jaskier is composing, true inspiration glazing his eyes and making him deaf to his surroundings as he has seen a thousand times before, and the relief makes his mood soar again, unable to hide his amusement at the bard’s antics.

He doesn’t want to bother the bard further, and goes to see Roach instead, knowing it could take Jaskier hours to resurface and be lucid enough for conversation. He spends a happy half hour whispering in her ear, and is interrupted by some chinless noble’s lackey, demanding he hunt a Griffin who has nested too close to his manor house. He sighs, and accepts the job, eyeing the man’s rich clothing and adding a little extra to the agreed price. Jaskier has expensive taste, he thinks.

Before he heads out, he makes sure to pay for another room for the night. But only his. His coin purse is full, and the Griffin contract will line it still further, but he doesn’t want to wake alone again. Even if they do nothing but share space. He misses Jaskier’s chatter and the way he always hogs the blankets imperiously, like a little lord. The hundreds of little signs that someone is in the same space as him, breathing and shuffling, leaving his writing materials spread over every surface and fussing over his oils and the tiny precious mirror he carries to check his hair in. 

Better that they save money, lodging together, and if Jaskier is in the mood for his usual amorous escapades, then at least Geralt will be the most convenient option. He grins a little at his own cleverness, hoping that Jaskier won’t mind moving rooms, but the plan is sound. He was always taught to take every advantage he can in battle. All’s fair in love and war, he thinks to himself, and snorts at his own joke.

They clip along the road at a merry pace, Roach sharing his eagerness to return to the inn and possibly Jaskier’s arms, though quite reasonably she isn’t as keen as him on the latter. He reaches the area the man described and follows the trails of destruction until he spots the nest over the crest of the next hill.

He sets Roach to grazing, and has to meditate to calm himself, warm flashes of the previous night sleeting through his mind and threatening to distract him. Geralt tucks the memories aside to daydream about later and sets to his work. The fight is glorious. Even Vesemir wouldn’t be able to correct him on a single movement. He is more careful with himself, his strikes keen and efficient, and he keeps his head. He has something to fight for, and all his power is unleashed in its service. 

He heads back to the inn, head secured to Roach’s saddlebags, the faint strains of Jaskier’s singing a beacon, pulling him closer as night draws in. He braces himself and walks in, villagers raucous with Jaskier’s bold encouragement, and their eyes meet across the crowd. The bard is radiant with joy, and he drags his gaze away with great difficulty in order to find a table and watch the rest of his performance. 

Dinner and ale are sent to his table, and he doesn’t even have to ask. He sits in a warm tavern, with humans smiling at his presence and the man he loves singing his praises in that clear high voice. Jaskier is the only person he has ever encountered in his long life who has ever made his life easier, and gratitude for that chance meeting in Posada washes over him. He will never stop being awed by the depths of Jaskier’s friendship, the work he has put in over twenty years, how he changes the world around him and spins air into gold. 

At eighteen years old he saw a Witcher, alone and despised, and decided to singlehandedly sing an entire Continent into submission. He has circulated Jaskier’s description amongst his kind, and if Jaskier is ever in danger when he is not there to assist, then any one of them will step in, not because Geralt asked, but because they appreciate what Jaskier has done.

The first winter after Toss a Coin began to spread across the world Eskel and Lambert nearly dropped him off the roof of Kaer Morhen in their haste to get answers, and they listen to his tales of Jaskier’s escapades with glee. After ten years of such miraculous improvement of their time on the Path, Vesemir gave Geralt permission to offer Jaskier refuge should he ever be in need of it. There is a tiny buttercup carved into the wall by the hearth in the western hall, so that the stones of the keep might bear some remembrance of him and what he did for Witchers when they crumble. 

If all that Jaskier feels for him can ever be friendship, then he is the finest friend anyone in the world could ever hope for, and Geralt has done nothing worthy of it, bowed under the weight of the debt. He has no right to call himself Jaskier’s friend in return, when he has done so little to earn it, and vented his fury at the one person who least deserved it. He wants to spoil Jaskier, give him all the wealth and accolades he deserves, make certain that Jaskier’s life is the richer for his presence in it, as he has done for Geralt.

Geralt listens to Jaskier’s newest song, as catchy and enchanting as ever, and the bard finishes his encores with a flourish. He blushes fetchingly at the wild applause, and bounds over to Geralt, every inch the excitable puppy. His happiness stirs Geralt’s own, and he passes Jaskier ale, determined to do what little he can to show his appreciation. He tells Jaskier about the griffin fight unprompted, the bard’s work dependent on the details, and surprises himself by how easily the words pour from his mouth. Jaskier listens, smiling up at him, a delight to look at, sprawled over the bench with eyes only for him. The story holds his attention successfully, and the two of them are cocooned in their own world, the pretty little bard joking merrily and sending the gruff Witcher into fits of barking laughter, a spectacle for the other patrons to gawk at. 

Jaskier wobbles out to relieve himself, tipsy after so much drink, and Geralt hides his amusement in his beer. He can’t stop smiling like a besotted fool, much to his chagrin, but it matters little to him if stories spread of the White Wolf tamed. They will only be telling truth.

Jaskier returns, flushed and hair askew, and tips onto his lap. He wants to show him off, wants to hide him away, wants the humans eying him to choke on their envy, wants them to realise he has the Flower of Oxenfurt in his grasp, the Jewel of Redania, acclaimed at every court in the land wriggling on his lap, wants them to dare to try and tear Geralt from his side, bones alight with possessiveness. 

Apple-lust rises, Jaskier trembling and blushing on his knee. He relents, and carries Jaskier upstairs, impatient and brutish with the need to be alone with him, to kiss him once more. He is no doubt crude compared to the silky words of Jaskier’s other lovers, but he can count himself amongst their number now, and it makes him bold. 

He smacks Jaskier’s pert rear when he writhes, and heat trickles up his spine when Jaskier gasps. He finally gets the door shut behind them and sets about helping the bard undress as he sways and sings softly under his breath, peeling his fine silks from his lovely body and carefully setting them aside as Jaskier prefers. 

Jaskier’s keen blue eyes watch him remove his armour, and he doesn’t know how to make a show of it, but he tries his best. Geralt’s plan has been a success. Jaskier is draped over his bed looking like something from a painting, every inch of him a temptation. 

Geralt kisses him and kisses him, relishing every drop of honey and resolving never to wait so long between kisses again. Jaskier tries to shift beneath him, and his seduction is so practiced Geralt burns to surrender to it, but Jaskier has had too much to drink and he doesn’t want to misuse his trust. He is pliant and willing under Geralt, soft and trusting in his arms as so few people can ever be with his kind. He rolls them and tucks Jaskier even closer, the weight of him a comfort. They are safe and warm together.

Jaskier whispers to him in the dark. Jaskier whispers, his beloved Jaskier, hushed in the dim light of the lone candle, brave beautiful Jaskier whispers ‘I love you’ and drifts into easy sleep. 

Geralt doesn’t move for what feels like hours, words echoing in his mind.

Jaskier loves him, loves him, **loves him.**

A single tiny sob of relief escapes him. Every dream he has is realised, and he would burn down the world if the bard in his arms ever asked it of him. His eyes prickle with hot tears, and he knows what it is to be home and safe for the first time since he was left on the side of that road, something to have and hold and treasure of his very own, someone that will have him and hold him and treasure him in return. A home to keep him and be kept in return.

He loves Jaskier with his eyes wide open, and the peace Jaskier brings him compared to the stifling control of the djinn curse is the closest thing to holiness a monster like him will ever know. He will never be able to return that solace, for a Witcher’s life is always a dangerous one, but he hopes he can be enough. 

The dawn light sees him stroking the pale expanse of Jaskier’s back, unmarred by battle and hardship, and he vows it will remain that way. 

Jaskier shifts and stirs to wakefulness, yawning adorably. He bolts for the oil before Geralt can even open his mouth to wish him a good morning, and swallows Geralt’s cock down in a blur of motion that rouses his lust instantly. Jaskier is slicking himself, and Geralt can’t move, can’t think, watching with delight as Jaskier moves frantically, his own desperation reflected. His love and his lust are returned, and if there were ever a morning that a Witcher might sing and dance with joy it would be this one.

Jaskier holds his gaze then, and Geralt has to pull him closer, unable to bear another moment without his touch. Jaskier teases him, slippery heat dancing over the tip of his cock, and his control is burnt to ash. He wants to cry with it. He does not know how to make love tenderly, but for Jaskier he will learn. He is a new man in the sunlight, something dark and lonely and always weeping with it finally quietened in his head. 

Jaskier sinks down on his cock and he cannot look, he cannot draw enough air in his lungs, a breath from coming, relentlessly holding himself back with all the will he can muster until Jaskier is satisfied as well. He half wishes to sink into the clarity his potions bring just to keep from embarrassing himself. Jaskier has dallied with great lords and ladies, handsome courtiers, pretty noblewomen, and brutish blacksmiths and stablehands alike. He wants to please the man he loves desperately. Jaskier must not find him wanting. He cannot match years of experience, but he can make up for it with eagerness.

Jaskier slides down and is seated fully, both of them gasping. He allows Geralt a moment to regain what little restraint he can and then rolls his hips in one sinuous motion. Geralt is so close he has no other option but to pick up the pace and make Jaskier come first. He lifts him by those firm thighs, the little bard yelping as he bounces him on his cock. He is so slight in Geralt’s hands, a delicate weight, honey-apple-cinnamon thick and humid in the air. Geralt is feverish with lust, sweat breaking out, Jaskier squeaking and moaning until he spends, impaled on Geralt’s cock, and he can finally let go with a groan so deep it reverberates through his chest. He grinds his cock inside helplessly, wanting to buck his hips into it fiercely, but restrains himself. Humans are too fragile to handle his full strength. 

Jaskier’s come is dewy on Geralt’s chest, warm salt marking him. He wants to roll in the scent, until anyone will sense that they are each other’s, that they belong together, that there is nothing anyone can do to tear them apart.

Jaskier blinks up at him, pretty face relaxed and soft with pleasure. He smiles at Jaskier, delight transforming his face. He has never had much cause to be grateful for his mutations before, but Jaskier’s expression when he realises Geralt is still hard is something he will treasure.

Jaskier goes to his hands and knees, presenting his pretty little hole wantonly. A wheeze escapes Geralt as he relishes the sight of drops of his own come dripping down Jaskier’s thighs. He abandons caution entirely and falls straight into debauchery and decadence, nothing on his mind save the pleasure they can find in each other, trailing his hands over his own chest and catching the taste of Jaskier’s spend on  
his fingers to savour as he fucks into the hilt again, spoiling himself recklessly for anything else but this.

He has rarely been able to indulge himself before, only paying for more than one round on the rare occasions when the stars align and his pockets are full of coin, but he sets about his task with determination. He is no poet, to serenade his love with beautiful words. He is infinitely better suited to action, and he presses his love into every inch of Jaskier’s bare skin. 

He makes love to Jaskier over and over, and Jaskier just begs and pleads for more, until he cannot find the strength to rouse himself again, and Jaskier is soft and trembling beneath him. He has done the best he can manage, and he hopes he did not disappoint. He has much to learn in the arts of love, but now he has a master to teach him.

Jaskier holds him in the palm of his hand, and Geralt has never been tamed before, beholden to nothing and no one, but he is endlessly grateful for his chains, binding them as true as any vows he has ever known. The heavy shackles of the djinn magic are a foul and distorted mockery of the way he breathes more freely when his beloved is near. Love is a choice, and he will choose Jaskier forever, every day for the rest of his life. 

Jaskier is trembling on the bed, eyes glazed and unseeing. Geralt makes sure to wash every inch of him with cool water, as delicate as his hands can manage, caring for every inch of Jaskier as tenderly as the bard has done for him. The cloth slowly wipes the tang of salt and sweat from his body, and he takes his time, knowing how often Jaskier complains about hygiene. Then he sinks onto the bed beside him and watches him doze, letting his heartbeat and warmth fill the world.

He fetches lunch for Jaskier around noon, preening and puffed up at being able to take care of him. His beloved is soft and precious, and he is glad to be his shield and protector. Let Geralt take every blow, as he was made for; let him bear the world’s disdain, as long as Jaskier still smiles for him. He wants to bundle Jaskier in furs, drape him in jewels and silver and hide him away in some deep cave where they might only exist for each other. He wants to feed Jaskier from his own hands, keep him full and content and well fucked, fresh cut apple scent lush in Geralt’s arms. 

The urge to care and protect is overwhelming, and he feels bestial and brutish with it, instincts warring against common sense. Jaskier will not stand for him snarling at anyone who looks his way, peacock that he is. He merely glares at anyone within twenty feet and keeps the bard within arm’s reach as they walk through the inn, Jaskier still dazed and relaxed from their lovemaking. He can do this, he thinks, pride blazing through him. He should have done it years ago, but Jaskier didn’t love him then, and his happiness is too complete to dwell on it much longer. 

Jaskier loves him, and as they set off, he wonders if they will spend the winter in Oxenfurt, or somewhere else. He imagines Jaskier at Kaer Morhen, those blue eyes gazing up at him surrounded by white snow, nestled in his own wolf pelt furs, and hope is kindled in his heart. If Jaskier would like to go, if he can take Jaskier there - the only other place save the bard’s side where he is not a monster, where he knows every exit and his brothers share his nightly watch - if he can show his love the place where he was made, where he died and kept on breathing, if all the people he loves can share one fire – Jaskier always inspires new dreams for him to desire.

They head onwards, and if Geralt carefully leads them around human settlements, then Jaskier is no Witcher to catch him at it. He wants the bard to himself for just a little while longer. Geralt knows Jaskier would never be unfaithful, but the novelty of love brings new doubts, and he wants to explore Jaskier and let things settle in peace. 

Their pace is slow and steady, Geralt diverting them to any pretty sights in the area he can remember that he thinks Jaskier might enjoy. The bard composes away furiously as they travel, long slender fingers dancing from parchment to inkpot and tapping his quill against his lips. 

Geralt has experienced his wrath at being interrupted before and knows to keep his silence lest Jaskier try and dunk him in the nearest water source. Last autumn he managed to tease Jaskier into fits of rage; waiting for the light of inspiration to shine in his eyes and picking the worst possible moment to say something. It took Jaskier a whole afternoon to realise, and when Geralt dismounted to let Roach rest he was abruptly tackled to the ground and swatted with leaves until he could hide his laughter no longer. 

They glance at each other as the afternoon progresses, love drunk and stupid. Geralt is getting increasingly worried about the new thing his face is doing and has a mild panic about being known as the Smiling Witcher for the rest of his life, with songs to match. 

His lust stirs again, helpless as he admires the bard’s figure walking ahead of him, following the curve of his plush bottom wherever it will lead him. He sneaks a peek at Jaskier’s face, that pink little tongue poking out as he frowns in concentration, and Jaskier catches him gawping and smirks, honey and desire in the air, and his pupils dilate, and he abandons his work to tug Geralt off the path and share pleasures amongst the trees.

Honey sweet days pass in this fashion, travelling each day and fucking every night, bedrolls pressed together, soft kisses against soft lips, dazed smiles of joy every morning as Geralt wakes and remembers all over again that Jaskier loves him.

Then he starts to notice.

Jaskier isn’t talking as much as he used to. He will spend hours, the entire time they travel, miles on foot, hours upon hours composing. It is not the madness of true inspiration that plagues him, because when that fever reappears the difference is stark.

Jaskier is scribbling away frantically, brow furrowed, barely paying any attention to the road, lute packed away in its case, as he has for days now, and then one afternoon the trance comes over him, and he stands taller, lute in hand, posture relaxed, dancing and serenading the world with as much joy as ever, haze-struck and wild with beauty. When it falls away again, he seems smaller, somehow. Geralt makes sure he has extra portions at dinner, in case an illness is coming over him. 

He makes sure they stop for frequent breaks, because Jaskier stops asking for them. He will allow time for sweet kisses and passionate embraces, but he doesn’t ask to simply rest for a while. There is no complaining about his footwear or chattering about the next town or hardly any background noise at all save him humming songs through and muttering rhymes as he thinks up the next line. 

Geralt offers Roach’s services, and adds that it will be easier for him to write in the saddle, half hoping to ride with Jaskier in his arms, or at least walk beside him and save his love some walking, but Jaskier refuses with pretty excuses. 

Jaskier has always told him if anything troubled him before, has always trusted him with his troubles, and Geralt has been honoured to share in them. If their relationship has shifted this dynamic, if Jaskier no longer shares his thoughts as freely, then there must be something truly wrong, that he thinks will hurt Geralt if he tells him.

The apple scent of happiness is diminishing by the day, and Geralt does not know how to fix it. If Jaskier now regrets his words, if Geralt has disappointed him, if Jaskier’s love is not an endless river but a shallow pool that will soon be drained, and he will not speak of it yet, then Geralt will only hold his beloved for as long as he allows it. He is no jailor to cage the songbird, but he mourns the hope he once had. 

A brief love is still love, he thinks, waiting for the end.

He will do anything to remain as Jaskier’s companion, return to friendship alone, or even the Path alone, as long as Jaskier will still smile when they next meet. He treasures every moment now, every smile and kiss he can get stored up for all the years to come alone.

They fuck every night, and Geralt can not be anything but honest. If the span of their relationship lasts in days and weeks, not years and decades, then he cannot miss any chance. He tells Jaskier how good he feels, how beautiful he is, how wonderful it is to hold him, praise spilling from his lips heedlessly, unleashing his innermost thoughts to the world before Jaskier ends everything and he must stopper them up forever. He has never felt this urge before, as time slips away from him, this ceaseless babbling, and he cannot stop scenting the evidence of himself on Jaskier, the proof left behind that Geralt was allowed this, for a while, the love bites on his neck waxing and waning like the moon.

He is greedy and grasping and tries to press his affection and devotion into every taste of Jaskier he gets. He wants to know all the ways he can love and be loved before the end comes. He wants desperately to fix things, to make things better, but he has always been monstrous. His devotion is no different. He can see it, even as he kisses Jaskier and makes love to him, how the bard’s joy dampens with every dawn, how the weight of Geralt’s love chokes the very life from him, how he grows paler and weaker with every day. Geralt’s devotion and desperation grows, and Jaskier’s happiness fades like smoke. 

He tries to kneel before Jaskier, as he does for Geralt, and the bard backs away, shaking his head. The rejection stings, but Jaskier just marches back to Roach and presses his lips together tightly when pressed. 

He reaches for Jaskier’s cock to stroke him to completion, and he twists his body away from Geralt’s touch. The end is closer than he thinks. 

He is not brave enough to offer himself as Jaskier does each night, and face rejection. The thought of bending over for his love, offering himself to be taken, for the first time, and seeing Jaskier refuse him in disgust sends cold shivers down his spine. He had hoped. Hoped, that Jaskier would be kind with him, be patient and teach him how to best please the bard. His cowardice shames him. 

He does ask, try and entice the bard into conversation again, but he only answers briefly and returns to his work. He tries asking about what he’s composing so busily, but Jaskier just smiles and says he’s been particularly inspired lately. Geralt could let it go if that were truth, if he really were on the cusp of some great work, but his lute sits untouched in its case, and he has always measured Jaskier’s mood by his beloved instrument. He begs Jaskier to tell him what is wrong, and the bard lies to his face with a smile, and says nothing.

He cannot bring himself to cease this madness, to drive Jaskier off himself before he fades entirely, to let the bard escape his clutches and be free, before Jaskier summons his courage and tells him the truth. He cannot stop hoping that maybe he will change his mind and stay, one last time. He will not lose his beloved one moment before he must. He is a true monster now, inside and out, but he wakes up each morning and prays for one more day, one more hour, one more kiss.

The apple scent of happiness is diminishing by the day, and Geralt does not know how to fix it, but he knows why. 

Jaskier is hurting, and he does not know what to do. 

His love only brings pain, and he is sorry for it. 

He wants to weep. He has done this himself, snuffed the bright spark and joy Jaskier used to burn with. 

Geralt only ever brings misfortune to those he loves….

and his heart is cracking at the seams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for reading and commenting!   
> <3


	9. Run Love, Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (my appreciation and heartfelt thanks to Llama for assistance with question marks)

Jaskier screams, and Geralt snaps awake, sword already in hand, poised to strike in an instant. Jaskier is unharmed, that he can see, but adrenaline rushes through him and he is the predator once more, senses strained to their utmost for the threat. 

Nothing around them for miles, and Jaskier is whimpering and heaving for breath. A nightmare.

He drops his sword, uncaring of where it falls, and sinks to his knees, pulling Jaskier into his arms to hold him. Jaskier protests at first, trying to escape his embrace, but he will not simply sit across the fire and pretend his beloved is not hurting, not anymore. Jaskier is safe in his arms, and he hums to calm him, the first faltering notes of ‘Toss a Coin’ flat and twisted compared to the bright tenor of Jaskier’s voice, but he hopes the music will settle him anyway. 

He strokes Jaskier’s soft hair, and the bard sags into his lap. He repeats the song three times, listening to his heartbeat slow, and on the final repetition, twists a soft Igni at the remains of their fire so he can better judge Jaskier’s expression. Tear tracks have stained his cheeks, and he buries his head in Geralt’s shirt to hide his face.

Geralt strokes his cheek, wiping stray salt from his beautiful sad face, and gently as he can, as softly as he can, tips his chin up with one finger to meet his gaze. Jaskier’s lashes are wet, and his heart is so sore he cannot bear it. He kisses the tip of that delicate nose, and Jaskier scrunches it adorably and blinks up at him.

‘If you want to talk to me…’

‘You’re asking me to talk?’ Jaskier says feebly, and Geralt would like nothing more in the world, even if it is the end of his foolish hopes. To hear Jaskier’s voice, full of passion and fury, to hear him shout at Geralt and tell him he has trapped him with love Jaskier cannot bear, even that would be a blessing by the light of this fire. 

He chooses his words cautiously. 

‘You’ve been quiet recently. And you haven’t played in a while.’ He says, laying out his argument carefully. 

‘I know I’m no good. At this. But if you wanted to talk. I’m here.’ 

Jaskier looks away from him. 

He waits, patiently. Hopes that Jaskier will finally rip off the bandage and vent his unhappiness and tell the truth; how Geralt has tangled him in a love he never wanted; how he is fed up of being too kind to hurt his friend’s feelings; how he has known Geralt loved him for years and only caved to his lusts when in his cups; how he can feel desire for his body but wants no part of his cracked heart; how Geralt is too much and not enough; how he is sick of Geralt and his slavering devotion, his pathetic yearnings, his paltry love and feeble affection; how he could prop himself on the bar in any tavern between here and Nilfgaard and find a better fuck; how he could stroll into any court in any kingdom and be showered with wealth and renown; how he is sick of walking beside Geralt on a Path that was never his burden to bear. 

Jaskier doesn’t voice any of it, merely shakes his head, and kisses him, farewell in every soft press of lips.

He rests his forehead against Geralt’s, but doesn’t speak his truth into the world, kindness seared into his bones as it always has been. He closes his eyes and settles his nose into Geralt’s shoulder, and fades into sleep. 

Geralt weeps. He doesn’t allow his breathing to change, or any tremble to shake Jaskier awake from his rest, and no sound escapes him, but hot tears fall from his eyes anyway. He holds the man he loves in his arms, fragile and perfect in his arms, and tries to remember every sensation for when Jaskier leaves him. A blurry outline of soft blue is all he can make out as his vision refracts into rainbows of firelight and the tears fall faster. 

Geralt does not sleep that night, keeping watch for the last time as Jaskier sleeps in his arms. 

When Jaskier stirs, he lets his arms drop slowly, one last lingering touch. He presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead with cold lips, and Jaskier smiles awkwardly up at him. They set off, and Jaskier talks to him again.

Jaskier talks, as he used to. Exactly as he used to.

There is no visible sign. His heartrate does not increase, his skin is dry from sweat, he smiles as he used to. But though he laughs and jokes, there is still no tang of apple happiness in the air, no fresh crisp scent of a thousand past campfires and merry meetings. 

Geralt responds to his chatter, hums along to songs he knows and smiles at stories he has heard a dozen times before. 

His mind whirrs, and Jaskier is still not happy. He decides to steer their path towards the nearest town, thinking to get the farewell over with. Jaskier can find some new dalliance there, or he can relax amongst his own kind and travel in the safety of numbers to places Geralt will not be welcome. Perhaps they can still part as friends, he hopes.

Their bedrolls are still side by side, and they fall upon each other frantically at night as they did, but if Geralt tries to show his affection or slow down the pace so he might trace tender words over Jaskier’s heart, then Jaskier speeds up, fucks back harder, spurs him on faster, rejecting any loving embrace and drawing clear boundaries in what he will accept. There is no room in Jaskier’s heart for him, but he will still drown himself in each bruising, hard kiss Jaskier presses to his lips, right up until the bitter end. 

Every song has the note of finality to it, and he will never hear them again, once Jaskier leaves. 

The best, most golden years of his life are drawing to an end, and it is his own fault, Jaskier not snatched from him early by some cruel injury as he once feared, but crushed between his own hands, ash slipping from his accursed touch. 

He has never brought peace or solace to anyone in his life, and wishing for more, always wishing, no matter how futile, is something he should have learned not to do by now - his own greed has tainted the soul of the best and most generous man he has ever known.

The cruel Path beckons, and he can see the course of his whole life once Jaskier leaves, misery slowing his steps and softening his blows. The sheer monotony of apathy before Posada looming ahead, and he wants to beg on bended knee. He is not cruel enough for that, at least.

Jaskier chatters and sings beside him, and once, one last time, sinks into the true trance, song-struck and free from the cares of the world around him. That sight alone is enough to confirm it for Geralt. The difference is astonishing. Something real and true shines through the bard as he plays his lute for the whole forest, heedless of any observer, the joy and delight he used to exude returned to him, and lush apple happiness fills the clearing as he dances and sways to music only he can hear. Geralt closes his eyes and breathes it in, glad that this joy, at least, is not stolen from Jaskier, and glad to smell it one last time. 

They reach the next town three days later. 

The alderman finds him immediately, rambling something about basilisks that he pays no attention to, watching Jaskier walk beside him placidly. He watches, and he is not ready, panic rolling in his gut. He accepts the contract with barely a thought, and Jaskier lets out a sigh of relief, tension dropping from his shoulders. 

He means to go tonight then, slip away from Geralt’s life and leave without a goodbye. Geralt will return to an empty room, and it will save him the sight of Jaskier walking away forever.

Time speeds up around him, flashes of reaching out to gently trace the lacing of the edge of Jaskier’s doublet at his back as he stands chatting to the innkeeper and gets a room, smile firmly in place, walking up the stairs together, alone in a room together, one last time.

Geralt drinks in the sight of Jaskier before him, and steals one more kiss from him, just one more, tender and cracked open with love. 

He manages to pull a smile on his face. They are both pretending to each other now, but he will not force Jaskier to stay, he will not make the man he loves endure the sight of the monster begging on his knees. He cannot abuse his generosity, his kindness, any more than he already has. 

Geralt is not ready, but the moment is upon them anyway, and he must pretend to the end. 

He exhales. ‘Stay safe, Jaskier. Be good.’ Inhales.

Smiles once more, looks at blue eyes one last time, and shuts the door behind him. 

.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

He walks beside Roach, dragging his feet on his way into town. The sun is setting behind him, and the colours are fading from the world.

Jaskier has followed him to basilisk hunts before, knows he scouts the area first, knows precisely how long he has to pack his belongings and make his final escape before the Witcher returns.

If Geralt stays to hunt the basilisk tonight, this raw and tearing at the seams, then he will die fighting it.

He walks into town, the dying light behind him, empty room ahead. 

Roach flattens her ears, and a wave of copper and chaos rolls over him.

Geralt runs. 

There is a cold firestorm of power rising from the top floor of the inn up ahead, and if Jaskier is there still, then he is unaware and defenceless. He leaves Roach behind, swifter on foot, too desperate with love and fear to hide his speed from the people who scream as he passes. Roach gallops behind him madly, the clattering of her hooves in time with his heart. 

He races up the stairs, medallion shaking and juddering against his chest and hot magic makes the candles flicker and the shadows start to lengthen crazily. 

He can feel the pull of the djinn driving him onwards, and Chaos snaps at his heels. It is a hurricane of force, fury and vengeance, and dread curdles his stomach as he reaches the eye of the storm, visions of Jaskier’s face cold and pale thundering through his mind.

Yennefer is standing over Jaskier who is still there, still at the inn where Geralt left him, alive and whole. He is cowering beneath Yennefer, holding his face cradled in her sharp hands, a demented vision of a lover’s embrace. 

He wants to snarl at her, wants to unsheathe his blades and hack, wants Jaskier away from the source of the cruel rage sharpening the air in his lungs. 

The djinn magic tugs at his heart, a sticky web pulling taut against his mind, but with Jaskier in danger it is a trifle to ignore it and stand true. It has no hold over him anymore, and he scorns that it ever shall again.

His hands tighten into fists, desperate to scare off the threat, but he doesn’t know why Yennefer is here, nor why she is using Jaskier against him. She knows where he is most vulnerable.

Geralt bites out her name through clenched teeth. She turns to face him, releasing Jaskier from her grip and eyes flashing with anger. He moves immediately, shoving himself between them, protecting Jaskier with the bulk of his body and calculating the best angles to launch his first strike.

He cannot hope to defeat Yen in pitched battle, but he will bear the brunt of her power if Jaskier is spared. There is a well of hidden kindness in her, and though the sparks of Chaos around them speak otherwise, he hopes against hope that some curse lies upon her, that she is not so twisted with vengeance as to truly wish harm to the man he loves.

She slaps him then, and his head snaps back from the blow, ears ringing. She is not using her power to rend him into pieces, only striking physically, where he might still match her. There is still a chance Jaskier can survive this. 

He is poised for the next blow, whole body coiled for the attack.

‘You callous bastard.’ She spits, venom seething from lips he once kissed. He shifts to protect Jaskier further, praying that she will spare the innocent her wrath. 

‘Please.’ says Jaskier, calling her furious attention to him again, and he snaps at him to be quiet. Jaskier has no defence against her, a mage of her calibre, and he will not lose him this way, he will not watch Jaskier die when he can draw her ire and provide the better target.

Yennefer sends him flying down the corridor with a scream of anger, and Jaskier runs. 

He lands hard, smashing through the thin wall and his ribs creak under the pressure. 

Jaskier runs, and he allows himself a split second of pure relief before he snaps to his feet and casts Igni right at Yen’s pretty face. 

‘What the fuck have I done to you?’ he says, knowing everything he has done to her, knowing this will outrage her enough to focus on him.

Yennefer flies down the corridor to claw at him, and one delicate hand wraps around his throat before he can dodge. 

She lifts him straight into the air, choking him, hair floating in the static around them, and slams him into the wall again. He scrabbles at her hand, gasping for breath. 

‘What have you done,’ she whispers, hoarsely, _‘what the hell have you done...’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i bawled my GODDAMN EYES OUT writing Geralt's farewell scene and listening to peace by taylor swift on repeat - i apologise profusely if this fic has made you feel soggy feelings cos i fuckin played myself here. jeez. 
> 
> any kudos or comments you can spare will give Yennefer +5 to ass kicking. 
> 
> <3


	10. Sovereignty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW FOR ROACH’S POV.....!  
> nah I’m just fucking with you guys 😈
> 
> .....?

Jaskier runs.

He makes it into the safety of the woods as the light fades from the world, dim shades of trees swallowing his tracks. He bolts through hedge and brush, lute clanging on his back, feet flying over the ground as though pursued by a pack of hounds. Only one seeks him, and rather a Wolf than a dog.

He pants, aching for breath, aching for peace and safety and things he left behind. His wheezes turn to stifled chuckles, and he has to lean against a tree to laugh, heartsore and still alive. The laughter burbles out of him, turns dark and mad, burns his throat as he screams with it. He keeps moving, stumbling from trunk to trunk, hands outstretched in the twilight air, reaching for the next tree and shambling along as he laughs and laughs and screams.

Leaves stir in the breeze behind him, and he ducks into a crouch, back against a large oak. Jaskier slides the knife out from his boot and smiles. His heart thumps in his chest, and tension tightens every muscle in his body, coiled to spring. Long watchful minutes pass, as he waits, hunter, not prey.

Silence rings true, and he swallows, harsh and audible and alone. 

No-one is coming. The Witcher has reunited with his lady love, and Jaskier is well rid of the pair of them. But if he does come, then Jaskier will be ready for him. He grips the knife and grins, something feral looking out of his eyes and scenting the air, unleashed at last. 

He heads straight for the stream and wades right through it, desperate to avoid detection. He knows how the Witcher hunts, that formidable nose, the keen senses, the experienced mind behind them.

He knows the Witcher, and that gives him the advantage. 

He has witnessed his techniques in action and makes best use of everything he can remember. He leaves false trails, obvious threads from his doublet hanging from trees, even a drop of blood from where his face was whipped by branches. He doubles back over and over again, climbs from tree to tree to avoid leaving tracks to follow, fleeing as far as he can get. He cannot outrace a Witcher’s stamina, but he can make it more difficult.

Nobody is chasing him, but he runs anyway.

The night catches up to him, but he never stops moving. 

Yennefer releases her grip, and Geralt slumps to the ground in a battered heap. This was why he tried to avoid magic-users; unless you had traps set and ten good friends with you then they were almost impossible to beat. He swings his legs round, sending her down as well, and slams her head into the floor. The djinn magic has never stopped them hurting each other.

He has to distract her, keep her off balance long enough for Jaskier to flee beyond her reach. He dives out of her reach and slides into their room, scrabbling for the dimeritium bombs in his blasted pack, and casts a hasty Yrden at the doorway. 

She blasts straight through the wall instead, and when he lunges for her, sword raised, she loses her patience completely and immobilises him with a snap of her fingers. 

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ He says, thrashing uselessly. ‘Are you cursed?’

Yennefer merely narrows her eyes at him. ‘I might ask you the same thing. What the fuck have you done to that poor bard?’

Geralt sags all at once in surprise. ‘He told you?’

‘He didn’t have to.’ She says. ‘He let me see his thoughts. Begged me to.’ 

Geralt is at once desperately envious and mortified. To find Yennefer here, witness to his shame, apparently furious with him for what he’d done to Jaskier, is almost past bearing, let alone knowing Jaskier feels able to be open with her in a way he cannot with Geralt.

His expression twists without his permission, and Yennefer, clever Yennefer, works it out.

‘You’re jealous?’ And then she steps closer, the scent of lilac and gooseberries only a ripple in still water where once it would have drowned him.

‘You care for him. You wouldn’t let just anyone tag along for so long.’ Geralt hangs his head, awaiting the blow.

‘You love him.’ He closes his eyes, humiliated. The witch he trapped so carelessly, that he owes so much, digs to the heart of him. They have always known where the other is most vulnerable.

She releases the hold of her magic and his knees give out beneath him. Geralt’s body wants to curl up in a ball, adrenaline faded, sorrow and embarrassment curdling in his gut. He simply avoids her gaze, staring at his hands.

He waits for her to laugh or sneer, as callous with his dearest hopes as he was with hers on that mountain.

The soft tapping of her heels patter towards him, and she cuffs his ear, far gentler than he deserves. He always, always underestimates the depths of her kindness.

‘You love him,’ she whispers, ‘as he loves you.’

Geralt shakes his head jerkily. ‘No. He was leaving. He doesn’t. Feel the same.’ All at once the pain of it rips through him again, and she sits beside him, graceful as ever, as he huffs a sigh out past the burning in his eyes.

Yennefer puts a hand on his shoulder, the same hand that had choked him so viciously, and he is glad not to be alone.

‘Geralt. I… ‘

He turns his head to catch her gaze then. She looks hesitant, uncertain in a way he has never seen her.

‘He loves you. And I’m sorry.’ She gathers herself. ‘But he didn’t know.’

‘What?’ Geralt says, baffled.

‘Jaskier allowed me to see his thoughts. I will not violate his privacy by letting you do the same without his permission. But… ‘

‘But what?’

‘Jaskier told me…’ One last breath of true air. ‘That you loved me, not him. That it meant nothing to you, only comfort on the road.’ 

Geralt sits. He sits. He sits on the floor of a room in a half destroyed inn, with a sorceress he bound to himself with a djinn, and the world s p i n s. 

The world spins and spins around him as he frantically remembers every touch, every word, every kiss, meeting him again on the way back to Oxenfurt, that first drunken night, Geralt telling Jaskier he needed him, the morning that Jaskier left the inn before Geralt woke, finding him song-struck and dazzling, getting separate rooms, letting Geralt use him, twisting away from his touch, happiness souring around him, working so hard on songs about Geralt, fire dimming by the day, preparing himself for sex, begging for more, never reaching out himself, telling Yennefer so she would understand, Jaskier fleeing the inn alone, thinking Geralt did not burn with love for him… 

Geralt lets out a single sob, lists to the side, and is sick all over the floor.

Jaskier’s hair tangles in holly, and red berries scatter at his feet in the moonlight. He crushes them underfoot and moves further into the woods, now startling foxes with his grin, now an owl’s bitter cry greets him, doggerel poetry falling from his lips as hissing steam.

There are no words for what Geralt has done. 

He sobs and vomits until there is nothing left, breath escaping him in creaking gusts and unable to hide it, the grief too large to bottle up. He had everything he ever wanted in his arms, and he was too stupid to know it. Jaskier thought Geralt was using him. 

Geralt shakes. He buries his head in the corner of the bedding and hides his face from the sorceress. Yen pats his back awkwardly, but it still manages to be comforting. He is even more monstrous than he had thought, but she is here, djinn-bound or not. 

His hapless disgust and anger turn outwards, and his fists are full of splinters before he can even flinch. 

Yen sighs. ‘Are you done?’

She waves her hand, and the shards shrivel away like worms in the sun.

‘You were right to be angry.’ He mumbles apologetically.

‘I shouldn’t have assumed you hurt him on purpose.’ She says softly. 

‘No,’ he says, sick of himself and turned scathing with it, ‘just accidentally. That’s much better.’

A thought grips him then. ‘Will you show me the rest, please? Yen, I have to know. What I did to him.’

‘He can tell you himself. If he chooses to.’ 

Geralt leaps up then, and paces the small room, a caged animal prowling.

‘I have to go, I have to find him, I have to tell him I love him…‘ The words come easily now he knows the price of silence, but Yen stops him with a look.

‘Do you really think it’s going to be that easy?’ He deflates again. ‘Leave him be. For a while. He needs some time to himself. You need to think about how to even start making it up to him, not just blunder in.’

‘What should I do?’ He asks tentatively, pride vomited out of him along with everything else.

‘The hell should I know? He’s your bard.’ Geralt glares at her then, a little spine returning. She relents a little. ‘I am fond of him, though if you ever tell him that I’ll wipe the floor with you. Again.’

She stands up, untouched and unblemished, turns towards the door, and Geralt catches her hand and squeezes it just the once.

‘I am sorry about what I’ve done to you, too.’ He manages, unable to look her in the eye.

‘I know you are.’ Yennefer stands, proud and stern, illuminated by candlelight, and then bizarrely, she grins. ‘Not that this wasn’t a merry little meeting, knocking some sense into that thick head of yours, but I’ll tan your hide on my own behalf next time our paths cross.’ 

‘I’ll be ready.’ He says, smiling weakly.

She leaves, and the urge to follow has never been so dim.

Jaskier dances through the woods, starlight burning overhead. A tapestry of constellations simmering through the trees, the shades of darkness around him, and no hunt ever caught such swift prey. He has no fear of monsters or men, for he is only starlight and ash. A song has taken his mind, and he glides through the forest, ghast-pale, the instinct to flight too deep to slow his steps. The piercing mournful call that escapes him makes the rabbit cower in his burrow, and the nightingale is silent on the wing. 

Geralt paces the night away. He doesn’t know if he deserves another chance at this, but it is not about him, and his useless wishes, and his sated desires. He asks himself what Jaskier deserves, and then the answer is easy. 

Jaskier deserves the world, and he does not deserve to be alone, thinking he is unloved.

He does not understand how Jaskier can think himself unloved when he is written into Geralt’s very marrow. But Jaskier does not read minds, he can only read the veneer, the frost-thin sheet of Geralt’s outward efforts to distance himself. 

At midnight, his resolution wavers, and he paces madly, desperate to find him and desperate to run away and never face this shame again. 

He has bound and destroyed Jaskier, as he did the Child Surprise, but Jaskier is not safe in the arms of his family. Geralt cannot wait for him to have need of a Witcher, because Jaskier needs him now, and Geralt needs him too. 

He curses Yennefer’s reticence. If she had allowed him but one small truthspell to wear: an easy fix. He passes idle fantasies of simply speaking his love, and Jaskier swooning in his arms. He has to earn forgiveness the hard way, and then he might someday toil enough to deserve it. His life has never been easy, and it seems his love will be no different. 

He tries to think of his approach, the grand gestures in Jaskier’s love ballads, the romantic quests and ballads of courtly love Jaskier sings. There are lovers in story and song, where one must fetch an enchanted rose, or face three trials of courage and honour, but they don’t suit him, impersonal trappings of someone pretending at love he has only ever heard of. 

Jaskier would love to see his songs made real, for Geralt to hunt purified sunlight for him, or fetch a sapphire as beautiful as his eyes, but the songs speak of Jaskier’s love, not Geralt’s.

He must prove himself in a way that burns through the mess he has made and leaves new places for growth, a forest fire to raze old ghosts, so that Jaskier cannot doubt again. They have twenty years behind them, history and jokes and lives shared, how well they knew each other before Geralt tore it all way on the mountain.

Jaskier has walked beside him on Geralt’s own Path, by love and by choice, and now Geralt must do the same. There is no greater act of loyalty he can think of, and though he is sore with shame, veins dripping with chill guilt, he knows bone true that he is loved with a devotion few people ever receive. 

He cannot sing of it, immortalising his beloved as Jaskier does, he cannot travel the Continent and sing his praises until the name Jaskier is synonymous with love, the tale of the Wolf and the Songbird a story to send children to sleep smiling. He wishes it was something he was formed for, but they do not tell tales of love at Kaer Morhen. All he has ever known of it is thanks to Jaskier. 

He will leave the Path, if Jaskier demands it of him, go to the coast, as he once asked. Follow where Jaskier walks, for twenty years, if that is what it takes to prove himself, and count himself lucky for it. He will swear fealty to something greater than himself. 

Dawn rises, and still Jaskier moves. He is no longer running, no longer frantic with purpose. He sways and stumbles, and each time he falls, he stays on the ground and cries for a while before moving on. It is wonderfully cathartic, and the poet in him wonders if he truly feels the emotions, or if he is merely performing it, the damsel in distress, a suitably dramatic finale to the tragedy, and then another wave of true grief will wash over him and he has never felt anguish like this before.

The pain ebbs and flows now, and he has been bottled up and trammelled in one shape for so long that the freedom to weep and cry and yell as he likes is overwhelming. There is no-one here to remind him of his place or trap him in a web of his own making, but there is no one here. 

The viciousness of his escape has receded in the soft sunlight, and the birds greet him merrily. He hopes the Witcher will appear from behind every tree and run into his arms, and then he chokes the hope down again, castigating his own stupidity, and with every step he takes, it is easier to do. 

He is unconfined in the warm morning air, and he finally relents, choosing a peaceful looking clearing with enough grass cover to make a suitable bed, and takes up his lute with a vigour that has eluded him since the mountain. He plays them all through once more, softly singing melody without words, every single love song to the Witcher, a lifetime of work, and then rests his eyes in the shade as the birds chatter their applause.

Dawn rises, and Geralt holds solemn vigil over his old armour, his old life, choosing something of his own accord for the first time since Visenna left him.

He has never ventured beyond his trade. He hasn’t hoped for more than life as a Witcher since he woke up surrounded by dead children and mourned that he wasn’t one of them.

He has never wished for more, as his constant wishing and hoping and dreaming have cursed him so well in every other aspect. To be a Witcher is what he is, and the hush of Jaskier’s voice before Cintra washes over him, asking softly if he’d ever dreamed of more than monsters. More than killing them, more than being one. 

It is not a decision he has ever contemplated before, and he cannot do this merely as a gesture, and then renounce it. Jaskier followed him for years, without hope, and Geralt will do the same. 

His beloved must come first. Jaskier must be the Path he follows now. He will take up his sword again if Jaskier wishes it, but his loyalty, his honour, his fealty; these are for his beloved to command now, and he knows Jaskier to the honey-sweet core. He will never fear their misuse. 

Geralt removes his medallion, the sign of his Guild, and stares down at the Wolf emblem. He served them with honour, and will do so again, but his love, his lord, his true choice awaits him.

He prepares the bath and the ritual oils, sweet almond and rosemary, movements slow and clumsy, echoing his mother’s motions as he was dandled on her knee. He cleans his armour one last time, and anoints his brow, his mouth, his chest. 

A vigil kept, a silence honoured, a choice made. 

He sits, cold and purified, in icy water, resolute and faithful.

Jaskier paces to the next turning of the stream and sets up a little fire in the hazy noonlight. The heat is fierce now, and he wants to rinse the sweat and blood and tears from his body. There is peace to be found here, amongst the numb misery that suffuses him. The water runs cold, and refreshing, and he lets himself drift for a while downstream, head blissfully empty before he swims back to his fire with broad powerful strokes, relishing the ache in his lungs and the rhythm of his breaths as he keeps his head under as long as he can endure, breaching the surface with physical relief that ebbs the pain in his heart. He emerges from the water, nude and unashamed, a nymph in pure sunlight.

He sets his clothes to dry over the little fire, and frowns as he takes stock of all his worldly possessions, now draped over rocks to dry. All he is left with is his precious lute and the clothes he left the inn wearing, and one sharp sharp knife. He can make coin at any human settlement he passes, but half of him wants to remain in the woods and live on his wits, wild and feral and free of the trappings of human sentiment and the troubles that follow them.

There is no-one chasing Jaskier. The Witcher will not notice his absence for days, wrapped up in his destined love. He will probably find Jaskier’s pack when they resurface between fucks, and snort at the little human, fleeing the terrifying sorceress and leaving all his possessions behind. 

Jaskier is suddenly so angry it boils the hurt clean away. He screams with it, alone in the woods, furious that he should be treated so poorly, and wretchedly grateful that he will never have to go back. For half a dazed instant he reaches for his lute to smash it to pieces, ridding himself of every reminder that can taunt him, but the barest whisper of common sense stays his hand, lest he need the coin it can bring him with his performances.

He will bear it for the rest of his life, out of respect for the King who gave it to him, and he will always want to burn it, out of anger for the Witcher he serenaded it with, an anchor round his neck. 

The rage scares him, but it feels good, to blame someone else for his misfortunes, and for a moment he can see why Geralt fell to the trap.

Geralt rises from the water at midday precisely. He packs his armour away and Roach greets him with a whinny when he carries out their bags, all Jaskier's possessions save his lute safe in his arms, and he is glad to see her safe after the turbulence of the previous night. ‘Don’t worry girl,’ he whispers, ‘we’ll find him soon.’

He heads to the market, people passing him with distrustful glares after the display he and Yen made last night. He spends the last of his coin on provisions, food for the journey, food that will keep until he reaches Jaskier, and catches sight of a cloth merchant as he decides how far the bard could have gotten and how long the bread will last.

He summons his courage, and heads to the merchant, both eyeing each other warily. He manages to buy only one shirt before the nerve leaves him entirely, but Jaskier always fussed about seeing him in solely black, and at least this one has the right meaning. He wears his colours proud as any knight that ever lived, and no force in the world could stop him from telling Jaskier that when they meet again. He will tell him everything. Silence has too high a cost for him to pay it now. 

He rides Roach out of town at a quick trot, swords strapped to the saddlebags, within reach but not on display, armour packed away, off to find Jaskier and prove his love is true, and wearing his new blue shirt, not half a shade off from the colour of his beloved’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greatly inspired by the Canterbury Tales, and the fact that Geralt always wanted to be a knight ;_;
> 
> every comment you leave is an extra sugar lump for Roach, and my god doesn't she deserve them for putting up with these idiots <3
> 
> come honk at me on twitter and tell me to crack the fuck on with it! @stonecoldsilly :)


	11. People Linked By Choice

A man and his horse enter the forest, following a demented trail of broken branches.

Geralt of Rivia, of Kaedwen, of Kaer Morhen, of no home save one he longs for, enters the woods.

He follows what breadcrumbs Jaskier has left him and puzzles out his movements. Here, the bard fell in haste and scraped his knee; there, he left the ground entirely and took to the trees. They ride swiftly, lest Jaskier have come to some harm, from monsters or men, or his own misfortune, and as the tracks meander and wind around and around, he tries to come to terms with the fact that Jaskier has made a deliberate attempt to evade him.

This will not be as easy as he hopes. He prepares himself for scorn and fury, justified and long-awaited. Geralt is determined though, and the prey he seeks has a far kinder heart than he deserves. If Jaskier truly wants him gone, if his carelessness has ruined any chance of their becoming, then he will never burden his beloved with his presence, but not before, never before he makes sure Jaskier knows how deep and true his love is. 

He reaches where Jaskier has made his camp in the quiet after dusk, an inviting beacon of little flames by the water’s edge, beckoning him onwards. He can hear his beloved’s heart once more, taste his scent in the air, and he can still lose everything he strives for. Geralt ties Roach to a tree and braces himself.

The full moon hangs overhead, and the night is wild and fey with it.

The hush of the forest is only disturbed by the pacing of Jaskier’s feet. The whirlwind of feeling he forbade himself from expressing for so long is still rushing through him, and he hopes dimly for the peace he will reach when it fades. 

He wavers between fury and despair so intense it renders him mute with outrage and grief. 

Grief, that the man he loves is lost to him, forever, with no hope of seeing him again, even in friendship, that he once would have begged on bended knee for. 

Outrage, that he allowed himself to be so degraded, for love if not for coin, bought and paid for either way.

Spite and self-hatred swallow him whole, and he would dearly enjoy seeing Geralt and Yennefer again, years hence, at some extravagant ball where he is cheered and applauded, desired by many, the lust he stirs choking the Witcher’s lungs, just so he can walk past them. He wants the chance to treat them coldly, to icily nod at a Witcher’s greeting and display all the barbarous civility he was raised to embody, taught so well how to smile and laugh and loathe and disdain all at once.

He wishes he had walked right out of the inn where the Witcher appeared, that he had never known the taste of the White Wolf’s almost tenderness. Better to have never known hope, better to still be whole, better to have kept the softer parts of himself cracked but not torn off completely. 

He wishes he had spurned Geralt, had the chance to treat him as callously as the Witcher did him, and after so long, Jaskier knows Geralt well enough to know that he could crumple the Witcher with as few as three well-chosen sentences, turn his fears against him, label him the monster he thinks he is and wound him deeply. He never would, but the words simmer in his mind regardless, never to be voiced aloud, merely kept in reserve. Jaskier will never use them, and feels self-righteous with it, that he is the more noble of the two of them, that he is the kinder.

He wishes Geralt loved him, that he was enough, that he was worth keeping, worth something more than a bedwarmer, more than a hindrance and a convenience in turn. He longs for him, all the romance he has ever nurtured in his soul begging for a kinder ending to their tale than this.

Jaskier fades back into himself, and the vast extremes of feeling have lashed him hollow. He feels tender and raw with the hope and the pain, the love and loss, the dry wasteland of his heart. He hates the Witcher, and wants to sneer and snap at him. He loves the Witcher, and wants to be in his arms once more.

He slumps over and tends to the fire, exhausted.

A haze falls over him, and his vision twists. 

A ghost appears by his campfire, on silent feet. A coarse shadow, as hollowed and hoarse as Jaskier feels, white hair glinting in the moonlight. Verse and meter fall from the poet’s lips, and he is too flayed open to be trapped in a seeming, some new accursed twist of madness. 

_‘The Wolf howls for stolen prey,  
The ceaseless hunt, the end of days;  
The Lark sings of scatter’d showers,  
Shattered nests and lonely bowers…’_

The illusion does not move. He regards it idly, from the corner of his eye, and if it is a familiar haunting, a dream he once had, he pays it no mind, but speaks to it as though it were a man.

‘Well met, stranger. Be you friend or foe?’

It shifts then, a waver outlined in smoke, and Jaskier waits for it to conjure up a copy of that voice. ‘Stranger, you call me?’  
The tones are so familiar he wants to close his eyes and bask in remembrance.

‘Stranger, yes, and passing strange. Stranger yet, by the minute.’ He gazes into the fire and burns his night vision away entirely so the ghost will fade. ‘The shape you wear is leagues from here. Are you doppler? Fae? A witch’s curse?’

‘May I talk to you?’ Says the apparition, and Jaskier does not turn his head away from the flames.

‘I will not begrudge you the warmth of the fire, but I prefer my spectres silent.’ 

The flames sear his vision, and when the lull of madness fades and Jaskier wakes from the dream, the clearing is empty once more. 

He can flee the White Wolf all he likes, grant Geralt his one blessing, but if his mind is turning against him, then there could at least be worse visions to conjure. 

Geralt does not linger to wait until Jaskier is more lucid. He flees into the safety of darkness, shaken by the bard’s dismissal, and his heart beats double-time. Jaskier is further from him than ever, if he fears for his sanity as well as his heart. He does not think Geralt will come for him, would rather believe it is some monster or curse than Geralt leaving Yennefer for him. Geralt will be reckoning with the magnitude of his mistakes for the rest of his life, if that is what it takes to make amends.

This is not a task that can be done under the cover of whispers in the dark, dismissed when daylight beckons, the sky folding the whole world down to just the two of them. He must wait, and reach for Jaskier by sunlight, in the brightness of the dawn when the light can strip his feelings bare.

Geralt watches over him from afar, standing by Roach’s side as she rests, as the night dwindles and wanes, as Jaskier sleeps by his dimming fire, alone in the world, but unknowingly protected, safer than any babe that ever slept in its mother’s arms. 

He waits until morning, when Jaskier stirs and sits up against a tree, yawning and stretching. The sight is as fond as ever, and as they make their way down to him, he heads to the bank and starts skipping stones on the river.

Geralt straightens his shirt nervously, smooths his hair down, and whispers an apology to Roach before giving her a gentle smack on the rear. She whinnies, and Jaskier snaps his head around in disbelief, stone dropping from his outstretched hand and landing with a dull plop in the water.

‘Hello, again. Jaskier.’ He says, restraining himself barely from falling to his knees, or rushing over to hold him and kiss him again. Not without Jaskier’s permission, never again. ‘I’ve been looking for you. May I talk to you?’

Then he waits.

Jaskier stares. The sun is shining on Geralt’s hair, the true Geralt, real and solid in the daylight. His shirt is a lovely shade of blue which Jaskier would never have dreamt him wearing. The Witcher is here, truly, has followed Jaskier in his mad dash into the woods. 

He has no idea what to do with this. He cannot hide his hurt and pain, will not bottle himself up again, will not pretend he is something he is not ever again, not even for him. 

‘No.’ He says, seething with it. He could not be less interested in Geralt talking now, when every word was so dear to him before. He wants to scream at the Witcher, wants to lay bare all the rot in his soul and dredge it out into the air between them, wants to hurt him as he hurt Jaskier, wants to twist him round and round until he too, is cracking at the seams.

Pride stops him from saying anything more. His self-respect, once dependent on the man’s every word, cowering and simpering like a beaten dog, stiffens his spine, until he stands every inch as proud and noble as the Viscount he was born to be.

Geralt looks at him, keeps looking, keeps his eyes fixed on Jaskier like the rest of the world has fallen away around him. Gold meets blue, and Geralt nods, and then bizarrely, bows to him, formally, bending that stiff neck deeply. His expression is earnest, no sign of mockery or jest visible. Jaskier’s pack from the inn is attached to Roach’s back, and Geralt unties it, and places it carefully on the ground, as serious as any priest laying offerings on an altar, and then turns Roach around and paces away.

Jaskier watches them leave, adrenaline fading as the tension leaves his body, and regret stabs him so quickly he is breathless, watching Geralt leave him again, unable to look away from his beloved.

The Witcher walks only a little way, and then stops, still in Jaskier’s eyeline. He unsaddles Roach and settles himself against a sturdy tree not a hundred feet from Jaskier’s camp. 

Jaskier stares. The Geralt he thought he imagined last night was no vision. Geralt followed him instead of remaining with Yennefer and asked if he could talk. Geralt took his refusal politely, not once, but twice, and now is staying where he can see Jaskier, and Jaskier can see him.

The smallest flicker of hope is kindled in his heart, a tiny matchlight glowing in the gloom of despair.

Geralt once hunted a Bruxa for two months, for only a coin purse. He can outlast Jaskier, for everything. There is nowhere in the world he would rather be, even a hundred feet away, on the bard’s sufferance. He must only stay the course, until Jaskier’s temper is worn out and he gives Geralt permission to talk.

It is uneasy at first. Jaskier watches him, and he doesn’t know whether to acknowledge him or not. He settles for waving a hand and smiling, and the smile comes so easily it burns, and then returning to his work. He does not polish his swords, nor replenish his potions, nor any staple of the Witcher’s trade. Instead he cares for Roach, and goes through his bestiary, updating it for the first time in months, which Vesemir would kick him for, and organising his counts of monster battles, nodding to himself with satisfaction as the numbers decrease every year. He makes little notes when he remembers things he wants to tell Jaskier, practicing what he will say and mouthing the words to himself. 

Jaskier stands by the river, watching helplessly as Geralt busies himself. When Geralt notices him looking, he waves a hand in greeting, and Jaskier snaps out of it and blinks rapidly.

He turns to the river, keeping his face away from the Witcher, and bending to his pack to reclaim his once prized possessions. Everything is in one piece, just as he left it, his fine doublets and tailored trousers a welcome change from his travel-tattered clothes. He ducks behind an outcropping of thick branches, and changes swiftly, at once feeling more human than wild. 

His thoughts whir, and he whispers ‘what the fuck’ under his breath repeatedly as he tries to puzzle it out. He doesn’t care anymore if keen senses hear, he is done squashing himself into unconvincing shapes and playing pretend, done twisting himself for approval, done trying to hide who he is and what he truly thinks. He is Jaskier, and that is enough, or it is not, and it is not his fault if it isn’t.

He checks his pack again, searching for his most fragrant oils and soaps, and darting glances at the Witcher and his horse. He is not checking they are still there; he tells himself; just being aware of any threats that may linger in the woods, but they are still there every time, serene in sunlight and not looking to make any move.

Jaskier finds all his scented perfumes and avails himself of all of them at once. Petty, he knows, but he hopes they make the Witcher sneeze anyway. 

Tucked to the side, rather more food than was in the bag when he left it. Anger curls, and he wants to tip the whole lot in the river. The presumption, that Jaskier couldn’t fend for himself, or catch his own food, needles at him, and only prudence stays his hand. He settles into his ill-gotten gains with relish, before deciding to get it over with. 

He tidies away his belongings again, shoulders his pack and lute, and walks downstream without a single glance back. 

Geralt scrambles up and packs his notes away swiftly. He reaches to saddle Roach again as quickly as he can, so he doesn’t get too far behind the bard, and then pauses. If Jaskier walks, then so will he. They will be equals in every regard. He carries the saddle himself, Roach plodding behind him and enjoying the respite, following his love wherever he will lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls let me know what you think! <3
> 
> like jaskier, i too am a horny slut for validation xoxo


	12. The Fork in The Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my sincere love to the lovely llama (again!) and dearest wibbly for assistance with TV canon!

Jaskier walks and does not turn back, following the little path that runs along the river. Roach chuffs occasionally behind him as he goes, and he can make out the slight jangling of her saddle if he listens closely enough, and then he keeps remembering himself and trying not to listen. It is unbearably awkward at first. His shoulders are drawn up around his ears with the tension, knowing that Geralt can see him, and feeling those golden eyes on his back. He feels hunted, and Geralt caught up to him so easily last time, even as Jaskier fled. 

He walks, careful with every motion, head facing only forward, performing his insouciance. After half an hour of this, he remembers his resolution to stop being anything other than what he is. He looks at the forest around him, the sunlight sparkling off the river, and a merry water-song rises to his lips. He does not push it down, but instead lets it fly, notes soaring in a delightful stream and bubbling without a care. There is no shout behind him, no hiss for silence, and his shoulders gradually lower, tension easing. He starts forgetting he is followed, relaxing as the day wears on, and starts wandering as he usually would, admiring flowers and pausing for frequent breaks to take some refreshment and quench his thirst.

The sunlight and songs brighten his spirits. The world around him is lush and green and beautiful, and if he is being trailed by the White Wolf, then sooner or later he will find out why. It will happen, regardless of his mood, and Jaskier has always tried to snatch joy wherever he can find it. He is in no great rush to hurl himself into despair once more, but instead resolves to see if he can find his enjoyment in the world around him again, instead of bending to Geralt’s every whim.

After the third time he stops before them, Roach starts to get antsy, and he can hear Geralt bickering with her even at this distance.

‘No, we’re not going to bother him damnit. Roach, will you just… please?’

She whinnies properly then, and Jaskier can’t help but turn to look. Roach is straining at the bit, Geralt attempting to block her with his body, arms outstretched to stop her shoving past him, and he shoves her back with his shoulder. She pauses, and then yanks the bridle from his hand with a snap of her teeth. Geralt looks surprised for a second, before she knocks him clean over and bolts past him at a gallop, heading straight towards Jaskier.

‘Roach!’ he yells, outfoxed by a horse. 

She runs right up to Jaskier and butts him with her head. Jaskier strokes her in fond greeting, pressing his face to her neck to hide his laughter. It is the first time he has laughed from joy in what seems an age. 

‘Sorry!’ calls Geralt. ‘She wanted to say hello!’

‘Hello Roach darling,’ he whispers in her ear, scratching the underside of her beautiful neck. ‘Who’s a clever girl?’ 

She seems content with his fussing, and Jaskier pauses to see whether Geralt has moved in closer while he was distracted. Geralt remains a hundred paces away, still sprawled where Roach left him, and smiling like a fool at the pair of them. 

‘Would you like to walk with me for a while?’ He reaches for the reins, and she huffs approvingly. ‘I have so much to tell you, and I bet you’ve missed me very much, haven’t you?’ They walk on together, the bard chattering away to the horse, who swivels her ears in his direction intently.

Geralt picks himself up in the distance and follows them, still a hundred paces behind. 

...

Geralt spends the afternoon trying not to eavesdrop on his horse and his bard, talking away merrily, and both ignoring him completely as he trudges along behind them, saddle still over his shoulder. He would have asked if Jaskier would like to ride, but better to try small steps instead. 

Jaskier has not sent him away yet, not told him to leave, only refused to let Geralt talk to him. He clings to it, that fickle optimism; the fact that he greets Roach with such delight. He has not tainted every remembrance by association. There is still hope for them, for him, yet.

Jaskier sings ahead of him, and his heart swells with it. He could walk like this forever, with such sweet music to spur him on.

Every time someone has asked him if he has ever wanted more, every nosy merchant, every bold innkeeper, Triss Merigold, Jaskier, even Queen Calanthe herself, all curious to know what else he holds dear other than monsters and money, all their voices rise as a crescendo in his head. He lives a transient life, no home to return to at the end of each day’s toil, nowhere he might ease his guard and feel truly safe. He keeps what he loves close by him, for where else would he cherish them? All that he has claim to, where he might protect them; his horse, and his bard. 

Now they walk ahead of him, together. 

He plans as he walks, and he has no gift for poetry or song, but only words can help him now.

He has pushed Jaskier away for too long, far too hard, for the bard to believe him easily. Jaskier thought he was a ghost, some feverish imagining, rather than accept the truth that Geralt cares, even right before his eyes. 

Jaskier has no faith in him, and so he must be faithful.

…

Jaskier walks beside Roach as the narrow path widens, even as the afternoon fades. The White Wolf follows, but does not attempt to move closer. 

Jaskier finds a pleasant enough spot near a fork in the path, and then settles himself to make camp. He takes great relish in producing his little rod, and fishing for his own supper with ease, demonstrating his self-sufficiency plainly enough even for the Witcher to take notice. 

Geralt does not call for Roach, and she remains by Jaskier’s side, occasionally snuffling with great interest at her namesake, and Jaskier delights in making as many fish puns as he can manage. It is a marked change from their first meeting, when Geralt barked at him so sternly never to touch her. It only took him a month to wear Geralt down enough to be trusted with Roach on his own, and the memory is somehow still fond enough to smile at.

Geralt approaches as night falls around them, and Jaskier eats his supper. He makes enough sound to warn them, cracking branches deliberately underfoot so as not to startle him as he has dozens of times before. Jaskier cocks his head, thinking of the years of training Geralt has received in stealth, and decides to humour the effort.

‘What is it?’ He says, and sighs at the thought. He has reached a more steady footing with himself, but Jaskier is still too drained from the tragedy and heartache of the past few days, weeks, months, years, to entertain the thought of any more. 

‘I…I hoped we might talk.’

‘Not tonight,’ is all Jaskier says. He has reached a fraction of the peace he longs for, walking in the beauty of the woods, and upending that too soon will not do him any good. He is too fragile to pretend. He must look out for himself now, guard his heart better, or dash himself to pieces. 

He tries to make out the fork in the path up ahead, wondering where they will lead him if he has to run. If Geralt pushes him, he will bolt.

But Geralt merely nods, and then wishes him goodnight, before retreating again.

Roach watches him go, but does not follow him, instead squashing her great bulk next to Jaskier’s spread out bedroll, and Jaskier curls up next to her, taking comfort in the familiar scent, her warmth, and the occasional snort as she settles into sleep.

He lies awake, wondering if Geralt is doing the same, and then resolving not to think about it, and then forgetting about it and wondering again. He watches the stars dance overhead, and thinks about love, and thinks about pain, and then he thinks about nothing, sleep alighting upon him softly and lingering peacefully in the hollow where they lie together, a horse and a bard, safe and sound. 

...

Geralt watches over them. 

.....

Dawn rises in the east. 

Jaskier’s determination has risen with it. No more. He will have his answer; he will finish this; he will not suffer any longer. 

There is no use dragging it out anymore, sifting through the ash and stirring the embers in his heart to no purpose. 

He cannot mourn the Witcher properly if he follows not a stone’s throw behind. 

He wanted a clean break, a fresh start, and Geralt has followed him. He cannot move on, be truly free, if he is to be shadowed by what he wants to forget.

He welcomes the chance to finally vent his spite and indignation, welcomes the chance to voice his fury and shame, welcomes the chance to part ways, as they should have in Posada, before Jaskier fell in cruel and useless love.

They stand at the crossroads.

Roach circles them, as Geralt steps into the clearing and approaches him again, limned in sunlight and the blue sky above them. Water dazzles off the river and sparkles playful reflections of light around him. There has never been a more beautiful morning to begin anew. 

...

Jaskier stands at the crossroads.

Every time, every single time Geralt lays eyes on him, he remembers all over again how beautiful he is, how proud his posture, how blue his eyes. Memory is a dim candle to the Jaskier before him, regal in the dawn, and the river sending light shimmering over fair skin. He is bewitching, but Geralt is not bewitched. He is in love.

‘May I talk to you?’ He asks again, once more, as many times as it will take.

Jaskier turns his head to regard him properly, and keen eyes narrow.

‘Yes.’ He says, coldly, but not cruelly, not yet. 

The moment is here, and Geralt is as ready as he will ever be. 

‘Please, Jaskier, I have no right to ask this,’ he says, ’but please, let me explain.’

‘Fine. Say what you will, and be done with it.’

‘This is…hard for me, but please let me finish.’ He swallows. ‘I have to get it all out, before I lose my nerve.’

Jaskier just nods sharply, eyes hard and blazing. He has one chance. And he will not waste it. 

‘I love you.’ And there it is, out in the world, and he is free of the burden of concealing it.

‘And I am so sorry.’ He says it quickly, lest Jaskier make him stop. ‘For ever letting you think that you were a replacement for Yen. For being such a shitty friend.’

Jaskier doesn’t move an inch. His expression remains still, and Geralt thinks of Vesemir, telling him to be strong, and summons his courage like never before. This is fear. Fear he has never felt when faced with a dragon or a kikimora, but fear that sets him quaking before a man. 

‘I have loved you since…gods, since Posada. And I was so scared. Because you are the first person, in a hundred years, who has made me happy.’ His breath shudders. His hands are shaking. He tries to speak and his voice cracks under the strain. 

‘You were my friend, and I tried to push you away, because I couldn’t keep you. I wasn’t good enough to hold your attention for longer than a few weeks, or a month at a time. You would leave, over and over again, and I never asked you to stay. I didn’t want to trap you. Ask you to keep fighting fucking monsters in shitty backwaters when you could have been in any court in the land. And you kept leaving, for your Countess, or someone else, anyone else, and you never looked at me once, but you kept coming back, and that was enough for me. I was resigned to the wanting. I never thought you could feel anything for me save friendship, and then I fucked that up as well on that fucking mountain. I pushed you away, and did it cruelly, and I’m so fucking sorry for it Jaskier.’

Jaskier just stares.

Geralt looks away, eyes burning, and tries to calm his breathing.

‘I made it...what, two weeks. Before I couldn’t do it anymore. The idea of never seeing you again, I just couldn’t…I couldn’t bear the thought of the Path without the hope of seeing you round the next corner. When I found you at that inn, I just wanted to kiss you, just the once, so even if you still hated me, if I’d already fucked everything up, then at least…at least, I would have known what it was like, just once.’

He cannot look at Jaskier. He puts a hand over his face, ashamed and vulnerable as he has never been before.

‘You were right. Before Cintra. I meant what I said when i found you again. I do need you.’

He tries to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order but everything just keeps spilling out, everything he has tried for so long to conceal, long buried truth rising in his soul, babbling out of him, and he can’t stop, and the agony of carving out his heart and holding it out for Jaskier to take is such sweet relief.

‘And then you left again, and I went to find you, and I still didn’t know if you just wanted to…to have fun together… or if it could be anything more to you. And then you said you loved me, before you fell asleep, and I had never been so happy in all my life. I stayed up all night, just watching you sleep in my arms.’

Geralt wipes his nose with the back of his hand. His lungs are aching, but he keeps going. 

‘And I thought I had everything I’d ever dreamed of. And I was scared…because I’ve never been in love before. I didn’t know what to do, or how to do it, but I tried my best. But you weren’t happy anymore. You wouldn’t let me touch you in return, and you stopped talking, and I thought that perhaps you hadn’t meant to say it, that you didn’t mean it, that you didn't love me as I loved you, even though I tried everything I could think of, but I didn’t want it to stop, I wanted you to love me truly, so I didn’t stop…I’m so sorry Jaskier…I’m so sorry.’

Salt stings his face, and he can’t look, he doesn’t dare look. He can only lance the wound, and the only way to do that is to keep going. 

‘I knew you were going to leave me at that last inn, for the final time, no matter what I did, and I couldn’t bear to hasten the end. I didn’t want to beg you to stay, and trap you. I have only ever wanted you to be happy, with me, as I am happy, when I’m with you.’

He swallows, and the tears burn his cheeks, and his breath is shallow, but he speaks. 

‘I fucked everything up, I know I did. Everything I touch, I just…ruin. Even you. When Yen told me, what you said to her…I was so ashamed. I didn’t tell you…how I felt, and it cost me everything. I won’t do it again. I don’t deserve you, but you deserve so much better than ever thinking I didn’t feel the same.’ 

He twists his hands together, searching for some small comfort and finding none.

‘But I love you, I do, and if you...if you could still love me, after everything I did. If you gave me a chance. I’ll do anything, Jaskier.’

He is begging now, and the tears come as fast as he tries to wipe them away.

‘I will follow you instead of the Path, I will walk by your side as you did mine, I will swear my sword to your service, I will pledge my fealty. My faith and trust to you, and you alone, to love you, and bring honour to you, and protect you, and serve you. Because you are the best man I have ever known, and I have used you so poorly for so long. But I love you…I truly do.’

He turns to look at his beloved, and Jaskier is crying too. He looks miserable with it, hugging himself for comfort, and staring up at Geralt like he is another phantom.

He opens his mouth to speak, and Geralt holds up his hand, pleading for a moment more. 

‘Don’t, don’t choose now. I don’t want to pressure you. I can’t bear giving you any more regrets. I won’t ever compel you to do anything you don’t truly want ever again. I don’t want it to be anything but your own choice, for yourself. It has to be your own choice. If you would wait, until you’re sure…If you want to.’

Jaskier tugs at his hair at the roots in his anguish, and sobs with it. Geralt wants to reach out to him so badly it burns. 

‘There’s…There’s an inn. A village a few miles walk on the eastern path. I’ll wait for you there. For a night and a day. So you can make your decision freely. And you can choose, if you think there’s something, something we can still be to each other, after all the hurt I’ve caused you. Even If we could take things slowly, instead of rushing into anything. If you would let me learn how to be such a good friend to you as you have been to me all these years. Even if it’s just friends…I’ll wait.’

He takes a shallow breath, heart and voice cracking.

‘But…If you don’t…if you can’t…if I’ve caused you too much pain, if you don’t want to see me again. You can take the other road. You can be free of me, and I won’t follow after you. I won’t bother you again. I’ll wait at the inn, for a night and a day. And I’ll know what you’ve chosen. But please…if this is the final parting, you must know that I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and knowing you has been the greatest blessing I could ever have asked for.’

Gold eyes meet blue.

‘And if this is the last time I am to see you…then you have to know…you have to know that my heart goes with you.’

Jaskier squeezes his eyes closed tightly, and for a moment, his hands almost, almost reach for Geralt.

He unsheathes his silver sword, the weapon he has borne for so long in service to his Guild, and takes a knee before Jaskier, who trembles before him, speechless. Futile despair and desperate hope choke him, but he spears the sword into damp earth anyway, feeling every inch of it as though it were stabbing his own chest. The sword stands proud, hilt shining in the sunlight, and he presses his fist to his heart, kneeling before his love, his lord, his choice.

The only vow he swears is ‘Yours.’

‘Yours. As token of my regard, as remembrance, as a keepsake, or as coin for you to start a new life. Yours all the same.’

Geralt stands and looks at Jaskier, leaving his sword piercing the ground, and let the gods grant him this, one final parting and one more and one more, until the very last.

Geralt stands and turns east, choosing heroics and heartbreak, choosing death and destiny, but choosing. 

Geralt stands and turns east, walking into the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say an earnest thanks to everyone who has read this, or commented on it, or slapped that lil kudos button. it means the absolute world to me, and your comments have helped my writing improve so much. i am having the time of my goddamn life writing this, and i hope you enjoy what we've all been waiting so long for! 
> 
> please let me know what you think! <3


	13. The Darkness Before Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a thankyou for reaching 10k hits, i figured you guys deserved the next chapter early, as a little treat! <3

Geralt walks the sunlit path to the east, and Jaskier cannot take his eyes off him. His vision blurs with tears, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the east as the Witcher fades from view. One last shining glimpse of white hair he would know anywhere, in any life, one last time. 

He has imagined so many partings, so many endings, expected harsh dismissals and stern words, hoped for fond farewells and clasped hands. This is unlike any goodbye he ever dreamt or feared.

Roach snuffles at him as she passes, and his hand reaches out to trail down her flank slowly as she follows her master into the dawn.

He stifles his cries until she, too, is out of sight, and then he cannot contain them any longer. One bitter sob is wrenched from him, and it burns his lungs to cry this loud, this desperately, but he cannot hold it in anymore, and he cracks apart all over again.

Geralt loves him.

Geralt loves him, not Yennefer. 

Geralt never meant to use him, nor hurt him, and Jaskier did this to himself.

He falls to his knees before that sword, clutching at fistfuls of leaves to steady himself as his heart thumps in his chest.

Jaskier thought he knew misery. He knew the taste of grief and loss, before, but he did not know there were further depths to sink to. He cries for the waste of it all, the things they could have been together.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose. 

If Jaskier had only been braver. If he had just said something, anything, if he had given Geralt some sign of his regard, instead of being too scared even to risk their friendship. He has always been a coward.

Geralt has always been brave, and he loves him so much, gods, the courage to bare his soul, every word at once a balm to his longing heart and another stab of guilt. 

He is alone, and the clearing is silent save his sniffles.

Every word is burned into him now, and he will never ever forget them, never forget what he has done.

Geralt said everything Jaskier had ever wished him to, and more.

He stops, and fear ices down his spine. 

He reaches out, carefully now. He reaches out, eyes shut tight, and the silver is cold to the touch. The sword is real. Geralt truly did leave it. He was here. He said everything Jaskier could ever had wanted, and more. It was no dream. 

He clutches the hilt in a clumsy fist. It is hard and real and the only true thing left in the world.

He does not know what to do. 

The shadows lengthen, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose. 

He stands, sword in hand, and paces the clearing. The sword is real, and Geralt loves him.

If he goes. If he leaves again. If he takes the western path. Through shaded woods and solemn roads. There is peace to be found there. Freedom from his pain. A quieter life, and no more hurt. For himself or for Geralt. 

If he follows Geralt. If he takes the eastern path. He will step into the sunlight, and something will burn. He does not know what. He does not know if he will survive Geralt’s love again. If he can stop watching for Geralt’s approval, if he has the strength to remain unchanged if the Witcher’s temper rages, if he can make something new of himself from their old patterns. 

He tried his best to please Geralt, and only caused him pain. 

The sun shines on overhead, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose. 

The Witcher may love him, and Jaskier may love him in return, but they have only hurt each other so far. Both holding back, both too uncertain of the other, neither wanting to be left, and gods, does he love Geralt, but he cannot cause him more pain. 

He cannot cause himself more pain, because he has lived for another’s approval for too long, and Jaskier has reached his limit. He has to put himself first. He is the only one who can choose this, and there is no more shattering he can take. If he falls once more…If he fails…then his heart will not take it.

He is too torn apart from what they have done to each other, what Jaskier has done to them, and he does not know if what little he can recover of himself can be put back into a pleasing shape, the jagged edges of where he tore himself apart too sharp, and if he does it alone, it will be for himself. He can find contentment again; if not love, then peace. 

If he goes to Geralt, if he runs once more, one last time, to the man he loves, he does not know if he can untwist himself from his beloved’s desires, untangle the part of himself that will always seek the Witcher’s approval, if he can rest and find some ease whilst he is caught in golden eyes. 

The heat rises in the clearing, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose. 

He does not know what their love could even look like. He has fond daydreams, and scattered hopes, from easier times, but Geralt did his best, he tried so hard, and Jaskier could not reach back. He is too hollowed out for love.

He does not know if they can be good to each other. Be good together, a solace, not a trial. 

Jaskier does not know what to do.

He does not know if he has the will to try. 

He is so tired. 

The river trickles onwards, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose.

Geralt loves him, and left Yennefer to track him down, waited for Jaskier to be ready to talk, and was brave enough to speak the words. 

Jaskier, for all his courtships and dalliances, all the romance and poetry he proclaims himself an expert in, did not have the courage.

Even in his most secret hopes, he never dared dream such beautiful words from Geralt’s lips. He meant every word, and that only hurts the deeper. 

Geralt loves him, but it does not wash away the hurt Jaskier feels. Jaskier still feels degraded and heartsick, and now the guilt chokes him.

Geralt was not cruel, did not misuse him as he thought the man capable of, but now Jaskier only has himself to blame, and even the relief of righteous anger is taken from him. 

Geralt pledged his love on bended knee, and Jaskier is not worthy of it. He has been handed the power to hurt the Witcher, and he cannot be worthy of Geralt’s love or fealty when he is so afraid. 

Peace lies to the west, and love to the east, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose. 

He does not know if they can walk together as equals, instead of two paces apart. Even Geralt’s heart in his hands, a glimpse of love as constant as the stars, cannot be weighed so heavily against twenty years of being pushed away, of being treated without care, of barely being acknowledged as a friend so that Geralt might protect his own heart. It was not kind of Geralt, and he craves kindness now. He cannot trust to hope that their lives, their future, might be so different from everything they were before. He is too hollowed out for optimism. 

He has idealised Geralt for so long, a love never named, never spoken of, only sung, as if that would protect him, and loving him was far safer when it was a daydream. Now it is real, and it hurts, and the muse has vanished, and in its place, a man, only a man, reaching for him, swearing his love if Jaskier will only love him in return. He had Jaskier’s love since the beginning, and Geralt has it still, will always have it, but sometimes love is not enough.

His arms ache for clutching the silver sword for so long, but it is still real and true in his hands. 

Day turns slowly towards night, and time slips by, and Jaskier must choose. 

Jaskier sets off down the path, and walks towards the sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> i hope you enjoyed your treat! :)
> 
> (please remember - it is always darkest before the dawn! and yes, we are still hurtling towards softness and comfort and love, but just a little bit further, it's very close now!)
> 
> please let me know if i broke your heart i should probably send flowers? or something? <3


	14. The Horror and The Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW NON CON THREAT!!**

Geralt waits at the inn.

The sun is low in the sky now, but there is still time. He will wait. 

He knows Jaskier well enough to say that Jaskier will not come in the day. He will make a dramatic entrance, at the last minute, when Geralt thinks all hope is lost; his impeccable timing demands it.

He will walk in at night, lit by the candlelight, and he will say ‘I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.’

And then Geralt will say ‘I just love you.’

Or perhaps he should start slowly, and say ‘I’m here to drink with a friend.’

He hasn’t decided which yet, and Jaskier’s approach will give him his cue. He practices his lines as keen as any strolling player, so his words will not fail him again.

Geralt sips his ale.

He already paid for a room for the night, dipping into his last savings. He does not want witnesses gawping when they reunite. There are enough people staring at him already.

He tried to make some effort with his appearance, appealing to Jaskier’s romantic notions, and his hair is up, out of his face, though he wishes he had the reassurance of it to hide behind. Geralt wears his new blue shirt, and he bears only one sword. His armour is still packed away carefully, but there is only so far he can pretend to be a real man. His eyes still glow gold.

When Jaskier arrives, he will go only at his pace. He will only reach as far as Jaskier does, and they will have all the time in the world to learn each other anew, in honesty and trust.

...

Jaskier walks and weeps. 

...

Geralt thinks about whether Jaskier will accept his pledge, or how long it will take time to earn his absolution. 

There is no other way he can promise himself to Jaskier, and he is surprised by how much he wants it. It is a poor sort of penance, but it rings true for him. They would already have been wed in common law, had they been a man and a woman. There is no formal way to declare what they are to each other, save sworn brotherhood, or vassalage. 

Jaskier is nobly-born, and he has the right to hold sworn men. Geralt knows that if he had stayed in Lettenhove, then he would have had a coterie of knights and bondsmen sworn to his service by now. He is fiercely glad that Jaskier escaped, but the child that was left by the side of the road dreamed of being a knight, a hero. Now he can have his wish and be Jaskier’s only vassal, his sole protector, trusted and raised above all others, stake a claim on Jaskier and pay homage all at once.

Jaskier defined the outward show of their relationship on their first meeting, as barker and muse, transactional and beneficial to both, and though it never acknowledged all they are to each other, it has been a useful fiction. Though the ghosts of his teachers no longer clamour so loudly, he had some sort of explanation as to why a Witcher did not travel alone, as he was meant to, and the comfort of the excuse even settled Vesemir’s fears. 

Geralt wants to be introduced as his sworn man so badly he can taste it, to have Jaskier publicly claim him, abandoning his Witcher neutrality, not taking the oath by chance, because he might have been raised to it, had he been born in some other kingdom, but because they have found and chosen each other, over and over again. 

Geralt will ask if he wants to go to Kaer Morhen this winter, and meet the other people he holds dear. He has mentioned his brothers, in passing, but he never explained just how excited they will be to finally meet Jaskier. They will love him, and he trusts their protection. He wants to demonstrate his love and affection without the constant scraping for coin or the vigilance he must keep against outside threats, to enjoy the freedom to take things slowly in a place he feels safe.

...

Jaskier walks, and weeps, alone.

...

Geralt still looks up every time the door opens, even though he would know the timbre of Jaskier’s heartbeat from a thousand paces. He still looks up, just in case. 

...

Jaskier walks alone through the woods, away from love.

He is crying, though how he has any tears left at this point, he has no idea. He has a lute and a silver sword strapped to his back, and the weight of both make his footsteps heavy and slow where he thought the freedom would make him featherlight. The release he was hoping for has not come, and he still feels the pain. There is no peace to be found yet. 

It is dark, but still he walks, alone, and tries not to feel miserable at the thought of this loneliness day after day, night after night. 

Perhaps he can be excused for not paying attention to where he walks.

But he should have heard the voices.

...

Geralt sits at the inn and waits. He is a patient man, and used to the stretches of poised tension before a hunt, but his knee bounces under the table anyway. And as the dinner rush fades away, and people trickle out of the door and into the cool night air, he starts to wonder if Jaskier will come at all. 

...

Branches cracking, somewhere to Jaskier’s left, and then two men saunter on to the path. He is caught unawares between them, and sudden fear stiffens his spine. He is no warrior, vigilant to any threat; he is a startled rabbit, frozen and cowering. They are both armed to the teeth, and grinning at him, not a trace of a smile to be found.

‘Hello there.’ One of them says, and he can’t keep them both in his line of sight. ‘What’s a pretty lad like you doing with a sword like that?’

‘What else has he got?’ Says the other, and they laugh.

His silver tongue deserts him, and the silver sword is wrenched from his back before he can twist out of reach. His prized lute crashes with a mournful twang, but he makes to run anyway.

A blow to his face sends him sprawling to the ground, and he doesn’t dare stay still. He scrambles away, turning to face the two men behind him. They are far more bulky than Jaskier, and desperation to flee sets him crawling before they are on him again.

He rolls backwards but the kick lands on his stomach anyway. Jaskier wheezes and splutters, and Geralt’s own sword is at his throat, and gods, he is going to die here, and Geralt will never know. 

Geralt is waiting at the inn, and he will think Jaskier cannot love him anymore.

Geralt will see someone else carrying his sword, and think Jaskier has sold it for coin, rather than bear any more reminders of him, rather than treasuring it as he does.

Jaskier will never see Geralt again. He will die in these woods, alone and pathetic, and that is the last straw.

...

Geralt sits alone. The inn has filled and emptied again around him. It must be past the midnight bell now. The glowers of the innkeeper have faded somewhat as Geralt’s hopes have dimmed. He waddles over, and even manages to look sympathetic when he tells him he has stopped serving for the night. Geralt just nods, and the innkeeper sighs, but leaves him to it. He waits.

If Jaskier does not come…then he will still return to Kaer Morhen. Earlier than usual, but Vesemir will be there to steady him. He can collect the scraps of old swords and forge a new one. Geralt can don his armour again in the spring, but he cannot walk the Path true in the throes of such heartache without falling victim to it. He will need the winter to mourn, and try to strengthen himself once more.

He waits.

...

The robbers loom over him, filthy hands wrenched in his hair and dragging him to his knees. 

Fuck this, he thinks. He is Julian Alfred goddamn Pankratz, the greatest musician this world has ever seen, and if he wants to be happy then he is fucking going to be. 

No lonely death for him. He will fight for what he wants, and if Geralt cannot be good to him, then he will keep fucking fighting on anyway. 

He deserves love, he deserves to get what he wants, he deserves to be happy.

There is no swift rescue coming, no brave Witcher swooping in to save the damsel in distress, but Jaskier has never needed one. He makes his own way in the world, and he knows how to survive.

He did not spend two decades at a Witcher’s side, enduring terrors that would fell a lesser man, just to run from he wants most in the world and die pathetically at the hands of two jumped up bandits. 

A rage so deep it is almost joyous stirs, rising and sniffing the air, predatory and ready to hunt. There is no more room for misery, only his anger unleashed. 

His mind whirrs, and he begs, only thinking of a moment’s delay.

‘Please, sir, please don’t kill me!’ He claps his hands together for mercy and pleas as prettily as he can, watching for the opportunity. ‘I’ll do anything!’ He is just a foppish bard with a stolen sword, no threat at all to men such as they.

They laugh again, and Geralt’s sword is lowered from his throat. The man holding it paws at Jaskier’s face and tugs his mouth open roughly with his thumb. He opens blue eyes as wide as he can, gazing up at the man and lets his tongue lap at his thumb provocatively, coiled tight and tensed to spring. One moment more.

The man undoes his laces as the other bandit circles them, awaiting his turn. Jaskier shifts his weight and reaches down into his boot, letting his pretty face distract them enough, one moment more.

The robber lurches towards him, grubby little cock in hand, and Jaskier’s dagger is firm in his grip. He smiles.

Jaskier explodes into motion, one huge slashing arc, and hacks his fucking cock right off. 

Blood sprays everywhere, the sudden scream finer than any symphony. Jaskier grins and turns for the other. 

Moonlight glints off his bared teeth, and he launches himself into a blur of motion, tackling the man to the ground as he grabs for his sword and yells incoherently, but Jaskier is already stabbing, hammering the sharp steel into any flesh he can reach, over and over again, crouched on the man’s chest and cackling with glee. He twists the knife, and the light fades from the eyes of the man beneath him. 

He dismounts from his kill, and something cold seeps into his gaze as he regards the lone man still struggling and weeping on the forest floor, bloody and wailing. He cocks his head, and dances on light feet over to where his Witcher’s sword lies on the ground. He doesn’t even look down, as the man gibbers for mercy, and then the sword is sinking once more into earth, and the forest is silent. 

...

Geralt waits. His ears strain, but the village around him is quiet and sleeping. No footsteps stir in the woods, only a lone owl’s cry. The little fork in the path was a few miles walk away. Either Jaskier is still deciding, still pacing, or he has gone out of Geralt’s reach forever.

...

He cleans his dagger meticulously, and then tugs Geralt’s sword free from its grisly resting place with an undeniable air of satisfaction. He hums as he cleans it, sacrificing the cleanest edge of his doublet as a cloth, until it shines in the moonlight as it ever did. 

Blood soaks his clothes and drips down his face still, but victory tastes like copper anyway. He straps the sword to his back once more, tucks his dagger away, and secures his lute again.

Jaskier strides through the woods, pace swift, whistling as he goes, leaving two fresh corpses behind him.

Jaskier wants true friendship, true love, returned and expressed. If Geralt hurts him again, or pushes him aside, he will not plead for his approval, not anymore. He is stripped down to his core, the soft trappings of civilisation pared away, the rot of romance and frippery left behind. He is a little wilder than he used to be, after the sorrow he forged for himself. He wants kindness and respect, and if Geralt can offer it, then they will be happy together. If not, then Jaskier can still find happiness elsewhere in this vast world. If Geralt pushes him away, then Jaskier can always stab him a little and fuck right back off again. 

He walks back towards his Witcher. 

...

Geralt slumps down on the hard bench as the sky lightens. He does not weep. He just stares at the door and prays to any god that might hear him, for the first time in his life.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you have no idea how badly i wanted to mark the last chapter as complete just for The Bants™
> 
> could everyone in the class please turn around and look at 'nanazlovese', whose very helpful comment inspired this chapter? 👿 
> 
> if you have some comfort inspo come honk at me in the comments! after this ride we all deserve it waha <3


	15. What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'it is the East, and Jaskier is the sun...'_

Geralt waits, as birds begin to sing in the sunlight and the village begins to stir again around him. He does not know how long he will stay here, until all hope fades, until he gives up. 

A crackle of branches, at the edge of the forest.

He stills, ears cocked, listening so intently he can hear blood pulsing through his own veins. It could have been a deer, or a startled rabbit. 

Footsteps. The sound of Jaskier’s heart beating. He would know it anywhere. 

He covers his mouth with one shaky hand and tries to breathe through the rush of joy.

Then he smells the blood, and _runs._

He bolts through the inn door, and races down the street to Jaskier, who strides up the dusty road towards him, covered in blood, his fine clothes dripping with it, hair matted and streaks painting his lovely face savage. He looks like some glorious warrior of old in the sunlight, a vision of barely tamed violence, sword strapped to his back and bearing stern and regal. Geralt halts before him, and valiantly attempts to ignore how his cock stirs at the sight. 

Wild blue eyes pin him in place, and he doesn’t dare step closer, in case he pushes Jaskier further than he would like. 

‘Are you hurt?’ Geralt says, frantic to touch and reassure himself that Jaskier is uninjured. He cannot see any wounds, but the bard’s hands shake even as he watches. 

Jaskier cocks his head, a little amusement seeping through his cracked expression, and steps closer, slow predatory movements. He reaches up, and Geralt is helpless to resist. He holds Geralt’s face tight in bloody hands and kisses him, hard and bruising, the sticky scent of copper and death overwhelming.

‘Mine.’ He hisses madly, and then sways more unevenly, and Geralt barely manages to catch him before he is unconscious. 

…

Jaskier blinks awake some hours later. He is lying on his bedroll, atop a soft mattress. The room blurs into view, and Geralt hovers over him. 

‘I got you some water.’ Geralt says, holding out a mug, and his throat is dry enough to burn.

He reaches for the mug, and startles at the sight of his hands, dried blood flaking off and discolouring his skin. 

‘I didn’t want to bathe you, while you were asleep.’ Geralt says, and some of his worry seeps through and is evident in his voice.

Jaskier nods, and winces as he shifts, still clothed in the tatters of his finery and feeling every blow he took ache anew. He is covered in a crust of blood and filth, and Geralt leaves the mug by his side and pokes his head out of the door to call for a bath.

Jaskier drinks. His mind is still vaguely foggy, but the promise of hot water perks him up enough to get out of the bed. He peels off his doublet and shirt, sighing at the expense of new clothes. Geralt turns back and traces his eyes over Jaskier’s body, lingering on the lovely deep bruising on his chest. He wants to cover up, but Geralt has seen him naked often on their travels, has had him in countless positions, and it feels foolish to be shy now.

The maids trip in and out with the water, but he holds Geralt’s gaze, dim unspoken words rising to the forefront of his thoughts and faltering again unsaid.

He still feels exhausted, and he slumps with the effort of standing.

Geralt smiles, soft and warm, once the door closes for the last time.

‘You’ve helped me after my own hunts many times.’ Jaskier nods, and Geralt’s smile widens. ‘I thought perhaps I might offer my assistance after your own?’

A little smile reaches his own lips then, and though words still spin around his head and blood still stains his hands; he wants it. The relief of someone else taking care of him for a while, not having to plan or pretend or worry for some little peaceful minute. 

Geralt steps around the bed towards him then, and Jaskier reaches for him. He cannot think of bravery or hesitance while this bone-deep tiredness drags his eyelids down; he just reaches for the man he loves, and Geralt wraps him up in warm strong arms. Jaskier clings to him and tucks his head into that broad chest, little trickles of tears dampening his eyes and letting the little sniffles escape as they will. Jaskier is not ashamed, or remorseful in the slightest, but it has been a long time since he last felt truly safe. He escaped death once more, and he will not take this chance at happiness for granted.

They stand like that for what seems long minutes, until he calms once more and Geralt presses one featherlight kiss to his bloodstained forehead. He steps back, and shucks off his trousers and smallclothes quickly, and Geralt raises his arms, asking for permission. He thinks for a moment, and then decides to let Geralt care for him. The kindness he longs for is within his grasp, and he aches for tenderness now. 

Jaskier nods again, and Geralt picks him up gently and lowers him delicately into the warmth of the bath. 

Jaskier scrubs at his skin, blood seeping down his body and turning invisible against the dark wood of the tub. Geralt steps over to his pack and rummages for a minute, before returning triumphantly with Jaskier’s favourite oils and powders in his arms. Jaskier watches through half-lidded eyes, amused despite himself as Geralt opens each bottle and sniffs at them inquisitively, before settling on Jaskier’s usual combination of chamomile and sweet-pea powder, though he does not make as fine a production of adding them as Jaskier normally does.

Geralt clears his throat, almost sheepish now, and begins to hum. Jaskier sits up a little at this performance, and rests his chin on his elbow, leaning over the side of the tub to better hear. Geralt hums, slightly out of tune, but he hums one of Jaskier’s earliest compositions, about a girl who fell in love with a star, and busies himself, ears pink, with the hair oils.

Warmth stirs in his chest, the White Wolf humming a lullaby for him, and his reticence falls away. 

‘Would you sing it?’ He asks, drowsy in steamy water.

‘If you asked me to.’ Says Geralt, daring to look up at him, just one brief glance, before he ducks his head back down, whisking up a lather in a little bowl.

He finishes the song as Jaskier dunks his head under the water and runs his hands over his face to clean it better. 

Jaskier settles against the bathtub, and arches an eyebrow at Geralt, who jolts out of his staring and makes his way over. Soothing hands settle in his hair, and he closes his eyes again. The Witcher copies everything Jaskier has ever done for him, every inch of the matted hair carefully teased out to avoid hurting him further. His hands slide lower, to Jaskier’s neck, and he rubs soft circles as Jaskier lets his head drop in relaxation. He hums the song again, and Jaskier joins him lazily in gentle harmony, their voices hushed together over the tranquil lapping of the water.

Jaskier slides under the water once more, limbs loose and languid. He rinses the soap off, and Geralt beckons invitingly. He allows himself to be picked up again, all the power and strength of Geralt’s body turned to carrying a bard where he pleases, and he hides his giggles in Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher sets him down next to the bed and wraps him in a cocoon of towels, rubbing at his damp hair gently. Jaskier sits on the bed and preens at the attention, watching Geralt’s face as he frowns a little in concentration. 

He fetches salve for Jaskier’s injuries and sets a plate down beside him with a stern look. Jaskier rolls his eyes in response but goes about eating with vigour once he realises how hungry he is. He flops down on the clean linen, tearing through fresh bread and some deliciously crisp cheese and cured meats. 

Geralt holds up the salve meaningfully and asks, ‘May I?’

Jaskier nods in agreement, and Geralt carefully peels away only the towels he needs to in order to reach the bruises. Half-formed lust idles in the back of his mind as Geralt catches his gaze and kneels by the bed to trail his fingers over his chest, warm mint and hazel in the air. 

Jaskier tears his eyes away from the sight; Geralt bent over his body, so eager to please and spreading the ointment with what feels like torturous slowness.

He flings an arm over his face carelessly, and feeds himself another morsel, feeling every inch the spoiled little lord. 

Geralt finishes tending to his front, and Jaskier blinks his eyes open again to see him waggling the chamomile lotion. 

‘Do you want me to?’ He says, eyes catching on the little slivers of Jaskier’s skin visible where the towels have parted.

Jaskier wriggles a little in delight, warm and comfortable and safe. He heaves over and flops onto his stomach clumsily, sinking into a long stretch and surprising himself with a yawn. 

Geralt chuckles, and then warm hands are melting him into the bedsheets. 

Jaskier sinks into a light doze, still dimly aware of Geralt’s hands moving on his body but trusting him with his heart once more.

…

Apple-scented happiness rises around him, and Geralt has never been so pleased in his life.

Jaskier lies on the bed, clean and warm, hunger and thirst sated, limbs loose and relaxed, heartbeat steady in sleep beneath him, because Geralt cared for him. He wants to crow with it, wants to charge at the nearest monster wildly and scream in delight, wants to whisper it in Roach’s ear, wants to stay here forever. His love is happy in his presence once more, as he thought he might never be again. 

Jaskier is tired enough to forgo any pretence, and he is stripped back and tender in Geralt’s hands. They have much to discuss, so Jaskier can make clear whether he can be Geralt’s friend once more, whether he came back to Geralt for companionship or for everything else he burns to offer, but tonight Jaskier’s gaze is too open and vulnerable. He turned like a flower after the sun to follow Geralt as he crossed the room, drinking in any affection like nectar, and his exhaustion is visible on his face. He has been through so much sorrow, and anyone else would probably be better suited to care for him, as he deserves, but Geralt is the one here, and he can use everything Jaskier ever taught him to show his devotion.

He still does not know what happened after they parted, but Jaskier returned to him whole and alive. That is enough for now.

…

The room is dark when Jaskier stirs out of his doze, and Geralt is nowhere to be seen.

He sits up abruptly, startled, and tugs at his hair, frantic to work out if the hazy bath was real, if Geralt is here, if Geralt loves him. 

A shape stirs in the gloom next to the bed, and a familiar hand catches his.

‘What’s wrong?’ says Geralt’s hushed voice, and he rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s palm, waiting while he catches his breath. 

Jaskier just clings to him and shakes his head. 

‘Will you-?’ He manages, and tugs Geralt closer, a little feebly. 

‘Of course.’

Geralt climbs out of his bedroll and rearranges the duvet around Jaskier again, before clambering under the covers himself.

He lies down, tentatively, and Jaskier immediately burrows closer to his side. 

Geralt presses a kiss to his hair and rolls them, bringing his arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulling him close so every inch of Geralt’s body is pressed against him, warmth seeping through his shirt and trousers. Jaskier feels safe in his embrace, tucked away from the world and protected. He wished for this so many times when they fucked on the road, and the reality is better than he ever could have hoped. 

He shudders a little at the feeling of Geralt’s clothes rasping against his naked body, a flush rising on his skin as he realises all over again how much bulk Geralt’s armour hides, how small and delicate he feels with that huge hand splayed over his waist. He feels dizzy with it, lust stirring in the quiet of their shared bed.

He wriggles back into Geralt’s hold, teasing just a little, and lets out half a gasp when he feels Geralt’s cock flush against him. He lets his head loll against the pillow, and a moan escapes him when Geralt presses a wet open-mouthed kiss to his bared throat.

Geralt groans and rests his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder blades. He laces their hands together and Jaskier can feel the warm puff of air on his skin as he sighs.

‘I want to go slowly…wait until you’re sure. I made such a mess of things. If we could wait…until you know you definitely want me.’

A little of Jaskier’s old cheek resurfaces then, the confidence of his Witcher wrapped around him and wanting him, only him.  
He purrs, ‘Oh Geralt, wanting you has never been the issue.’

Geralt huffs his laughter into his back, and Jaskier can feel his grin.

Geralt laces their hands together and strokes the fine skin at his wrist with his thumb.

They lie awake in the darkness, both smiling a little.

Jaskier traces Geralt’s calluses with his fingers slowly, and the Witcher nestles closer.

‘Will you…will you tell me what happened?’ He asks. ‘If you want to.’

Jaskier pauses and tries to gather his words. It seems blurred and faraway in his mind now, but he remembers the fear, and then the wildness that came after it, stirring in his thoughts at his notice and making him want to snap his jaws. He calms again, after a moment of Geralt remaining very still behind him.

‘Two robbers, trying to take your sword. And then they tried to take me.’

Geralt’s breath hitches. He rolls over to face him, and holds Geralt’s gaze firmly, continuing before he gets the chance to work himself up over it. 

‘The first one tried something I didn’t like, so I cut his cock off and he died on your sword. I stabbed the second one to death. Made a bit of a mess doing it.’

Geralt looks startled for a moment, and then with great theatricality and exaggerated care, shifts his hips well away from Jaskier’s front and makes what he probably thinks is a good impression of someone looking scared, but ends up rather cross-eyed.

Jaskier dissolves into peals of laughter, and they giggle in bed together like children.

Geralt has known him to fall into wildness before and has seen him thrash men bloody in bar fights in taverns across the Continent. Geralt has witnessed him with dagger bared and rage soaring, and dragged him kicking and screaming vengeance from enough people who insult Witchers to know he can handle himself. Geralt is all lethal efficiency in battle, none of that formidable strength wasted, whereas Jaskier just never stops fighting. They make a fine team when cornered. 

Their laughter dies down gradually, and Geralt smiles at him again. 

‘My brave bard,’ he says, and Jaskier blushes, helpless in the face of open praise from someone usually so reticent with it. He rolls over again, and settles once more into Geralt’s arms, letting himself relax.

Geralt whispers to him, soft but earnest, ‘I love you.’ 

Jaskier keeps his own mouth sealed tight, for now, but he falls asleep smiling.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have been waiting fourteen chapters for a scrap of comfort please let me know if it hits the spot!  
> i am hella nervous posting this! i hope you like it! ❤️❤️❤️


	16. And Light Always Answers

Jaskier surfaces from sleep sluggishly, blearily trying to open his eyes and stiffening abruptly when he feels a body next to him in the bed. 

He thrashes onto his side, twisting to look at the person holding him, and sees Geralt’s face, blinking up at him, mouth parting slowly in a warm smile. The memory of Geralt bathing him, being so gentle, caring for him, swims back into his mind.

He stares. Geralt is clothed, where he is naked, and Jaskier’s eye catches on his neck. 

His medallion is missing. 

Geralt hums enquiringly up at him, yawning a little and stretching contentedly. Jaskier takes one panicked second to think, sinking into that predatory corner of his mind where the dark and the wild waits.

He springs into action, trailing his hands in a slow maddening slide up Geralt’s body and biting his lip coquettishly. Geralt looks startled for a moment, but Jaskier strokes his collarbone deliberately gently with one finger, until he goes limp and pliant, staring up at Jaskier with huge dilated pupils and breath coming harsh and fast. 

Jaskier straddles his hips in one smooth roll and leans forward teasingly until their lips almost brush, almost kiss over and over. His hand slips to the side, while Geralt is distracted, reaching out and grasping for his boots next to the bed. Geralt trembles beneath him, and his eyes fall closed. 

Jaskier strikes. He whips his dagger out of his boot and presses it firmly against the doppler’s throat. ‘Don’t fucking move.’

The thing wearing Geralt’s face freezes. Jaskier bares his teeth in a sharp grin.

‘Where’s his medallion? Hmm?’

The Doppler gabbles, ‘Wait, Jaskier, it’s me, Geralt, I took it off, it’s in my pack.’

‘The real Geralt would _never_ take it off, try again.’

‘Silver! Dopplers can’t touch silver…it’s me, Jaskier, try it.’

He slides off the bed before it can make a move and unsheathes the silver sword, snapping it around in one swift flick of his wrist. Geralt wraps his palm around the blade, and Jaskier sighs with relief.

‘You thought I was a Doppler?’ says Geralt, sounding baffled. 

Rage simmers under his skin.

‘See, this is the problem, I don’t fucking trust you.’

There. The words are out there, and suddenly he can’t stand an instant more of being naked and vulnerable while Geralt just looks at him sadly.

He shoves the sword aside and scrabbles quickly into the nearest clothes he can find, while Geralt sits on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, watching him quietly.

He tugs at his hair, pacing the room, and then it all comes out at once.

‘You treated me like _shit_ , for _years_ , and all of a sudden you’re being all caring, saying you're in love with me? It’s bollocks. You don’t treat people you care about like that, you just don’t. I was fine, until you fucking came and found me again, and properly fucked me over. I was going to Oxenfurt, and then you walked back into my life, and I just fucking rolled over for you… ‘

He can’t even say it aloud. 

‘Gods, I just let you, because I fucking loved you so much, and you wouldn’t even say that we were fucking friends. Twenty goddamn years, and I thought I was a burden to you the whole time.’

Geralt watches him, face impassive, shoulders hunched and tense. He’s hurting the man he loves again, but if he bottles this up then nothing good will come of it. Hurt and anger seethe through him and the opportunity to finally speak his mind makes him bolder. 

‘I tried to leave, you know, before you sent me away again. Like you did on that mountain, when I asked…I asked if you wanted to go to the coast, and then you went and fucked Yennefer, and told me all I’d done for you was shovel shit.’ He shakes with anger now, and it comes out as a roar. ‘You fucking ungrateful bastard, gods, as if following you around like some fucking loyal dog wasn’t enough, fucking singlehandedly improving your reputation, stitching you up and paying for your fucking beds, and your baths, and your goddamn dinners!’

Hot tears stream down his face. ‘And then you have the nerve to ask that, when the only nice things you’ve ever said have been when I spread my fucking legs for you. Never once, not once, did you say something goddamn nice to me. That would have made it a hell of a lot easier to believe you weren't a fucking Doppler.’

He heaves out a breath, and then the last scrap of hurt rises to his lips.

‘I was leaving, when the bandits found me. I wasn’t going to meet you.’

Geralt’s stoic expression cracks then, hurt and misery visible on his face. He looks small and defeated on the bed, hugging his knees tightly.

Jaskier stops his pacing and stands, trembling but firm. 

‘I didn’t know if we could be anything together when all I ever try to do is twist myself up to please you and fail at it. They tried to kill me, and I didn’t want… I didn’t want to lose the chance without even trying. But I won’t let you treat me poorly anymore. I won’t do it. I can’t.’

Geralt nods fervently, and stretches a hand out to him tentatively.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I am, for everything, Jaskier, please.’

Jaskier steps hesitantly closer and allows their hands to meet. Geralt laces their fingers together firmly, and looks up at him, resolute. 

‘I’ve never done this before, and that's no excuse. But I want to learn how to love you properly, treat you as you deserve to be treated. Be a good friend to you, at the very least.’

Jaskier holds his gaze, and asks cautiously, ‘You won’t push me away again?’

‘Never.’

‘You won’t treat me like a burden?’

‘You have _never_ been a burden.’ Geralt says, vehemently.

‘You’ll be honest with me? You promise?’

‘Jaskier, I’d do anything for you.’ Geralt says, golden eyes fixed on his, radiating keen sincerity. ‘I promise.’

He can almost believe it. Jaskier is resilient enough to risk his heart in Geralt’s hands once more, and the hope is an inferno in his chest. 

The pain and anguish burn away clean, cold truth by daylight, and a sob escapes him.

He lunges for Geralt, and the man he loves wraps him desperately tightly in his arms and presses fervent kisses to his hair as the relief breaks over him and Jaskier cries, one last time. 

When the tears fade, Jaskier lies in Geralt’s embrace as he strokes his side softly, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling and thinking about love.

‘Slowly.’ He whispers, and Geralt sits up on his elbow to better look at him, reaching for his hand and playing with his fingers gently.

‘If we can be friends. Then we’ll see.’ 

Geralt nods, smiling. ‘Of course.’

They lapse into silence as Geralt’s eyes trace his face, and Jaskier’s mind wanders, calmer than he has been in weeks. 

‘Why _aren’t_ you wearing your medallion?’ He asks, trying to puzzle it out.

Geralt blinks, and his mouth opens and closes, searching for the words. Jaskier waits patiently, and lets his fingers trace little patterns over Geralt’s wrist, a tiny thrill of delight at the permission to touch freely seeping through.

Geralt clears his throat and looks almost anxious. 

‘I took it off when I realised what I’d done. When you left. I made a vow. To put you first, instead of the Path.’

‘So, what, you’re not a Witcher anymore?’ Jaskier stares up at him, startled.

‘I’ll always be a Witcher, just as you will always be a bard, but it’s…what I am, not who I am.’

He buries his face in Jaskier’s shoulder, and the words come through gritted teeth, but he manages to get them out. 

‘I thought…I could never hope to have more, be more, especially after Blaviken. I let it define me, what they taught us, everything everyone always says about Witchers not being able to feel.’ 

Jaskier reaches up and strokes his lovely hair, and Geralt shivers a little.

‘There’s something more important to me now. You followed me, on my Path, and I…I was so horrible to you. I wanted to.’ He clears his throat again, and that familiar growl becomes a cracked little whisper. ‘To walk alongside you on yours, and make it up to you.’

Jaskier grips his hand firmly. ‘Together.’

Geralt dares a little glance up at him then and smiles shyly.

‘So, if I wanted to winter at court, you’ll come too?’

‘If you want me to?’ He says, brow furrowed. ‘I could, er…play the tambourine or something.’

Jaskier cannot help his giggles at that, and Geralt grins up at him. 

‘You’d go mad within a week.’

‘I’d do it, for you. If it helped. Prove that I love you.’

Jaskier hums a little in response.

Geralt gets that determined look that Jaskier normally only sees when he’s about to fight.

‘And I meant it, when I said I’d swear to you, as well.’

Jaskier’s mouth falls open in shock.

‘Are you serious?’

Geralt brings his hand up and kisses Jaskier’s knuckles agonisingly softly.

‘I am.’

Jaskier’s head flops back on the bed, dizzily. He left that life behind, long ago. He was raised with the knowledge that men would pay him homage, would put their loyalty and their trust in his hands, live and fight and die at his command, and it was always the most solemn duty of his rank. To be someone worth that trust; to defend and protect his vassals with honour, it always seemed an impossible dream. 

He has always tried to live freely, pledging himself to nothing and no-one, unencumbered by the chains of responsibility. But Geralt, the most noble man Jaskier has ever met, offering his fealty, seeing something in him worth swearing to, gods, it’s enough to set his head to spinning. 

They only just agreed to take things slowly, he reminds himself firmly. It’s far too soon to be contemplating a lifelong commitment anyway.

‘I’ll think about it.’ He manages, feebly, sliding off the bed. ‘We should. We should probably head off soon, before they kick us out.’

…

Roach greets them excitedly, and Jaskier wraps his arms around her happily as she chuffs at his hair. Geralt smiles at the pair of them, and they set out through the town, exchanging awkward glances and sheepish grins.

Geralt tries not to get his hopes up, but Jaskier is back by his side, and his happiness is too heartfelt to be denied. It did hurt, hearing those harsh words, guilt and shame a cold little lump in his stomach even now, but he cannot deny that they were deserved, and Jaskier needed to say them. Now the air between them is easier than it has been in an age, and he will do his best to treat Jaskier as he deserves, and perhaps Jaskier will allow them to move past friendship, when he is ready.

He doesn’t have anything to hide anymore, no biting back his words or carefully concealing his regard. He can act as foolishly and embarrassingly in love as he _actually_ is, and the difference is jarring. It will take time, before he can truly be comfortable so exposed, but he cannot afford to let Jaskier think he is unloved again, even if he finds it difficult to express, and the words always want to stop in his throat.

Jaskier hums a little song under his breath next to him and the world is all sunlit and gold. They reach the signpost at the crossroads and stop before it.

Jaskier looks at him.

He looks at Jaskier.

‘Where the hell are we even going?’ cackles Jaskier.

‘No idea.’ He says, smiling back fondly. ‘You choose, and I’ll follow.’

Jaskier inspects the signpost intently, pacing around it and squinting up at each direction carefully. He even taps the wood with his foot, humming as though in deep thought. After a good few minutes of this performance, Geralt settles in to watch and leans on Roach, who just flicks an ear at him.

‘Tell you what,’ says Jaskier thoughtfully, ‘Heads for north, tails for south. It’s your turn to do some coin-tossing.’

Geralt chuckles, and pats for his coin-purse. ‘Actually, about that…’ He says, going pink around the ears with embarrassment. The very last of his savings went on the inn, and he is truly penniless. 

Jaskier just huffs a laugh and reaches for his own significantly heavy purse and flicks a copper at him. 

‘Don’t even start.’ Jaskier says warningly. Geralt grins at him, mischief plain as day on his face.

‘When a humble bard…’ He warbles about three octaves too high, and Jaskier squawks at him threateningly and throws another copper at his head.

He snatches in mid-air, hand moving too fast for human eyes to spot, and Jaskier grins back and pelts him with more as Geralt starts bellowing Toss A Coin as loud as he can and chases Jaskier round the signpost.

Roach snorts in exasperation.

He catches the edge of Jaskier’s doublet and reels him in, taking advantage of his wriggling to pour the handful of copper down his breeches as Jaskier shrieks with laughter and threatens dire vengeance.

His chest suddenly feels tight, and the thought that he could have lost this, the warmth of Jaskier’s merry smile, even his friendly teasing, the thought _burns_ him. If it weren’t for a random bandit attack, he would be alone save Roach right now.

Jaskier’s giggles fade, and he turns in Geralt’s hold to look up at him questioningly. 

Geralt has to be honest, he _promised_ he would be honest, but the words won’t come. All he has to do is speak, and he can’t even do that. He tried goddamn singing not five minutes ago, but now his throat is closed against him. He can’t even keep the simplest promise to the man he loves. His skin crawls, and the guilt swallows him whole. 

‘I..’ He tries, but he can’t meet Jaskier’s eyes anymore. Geralt can take on any monster he is pointed at, but he can barely fucking talk.

Jaskier, kind and sweet Jaskier, just squeezes his hands, and whispers ‘Later. It’s alright.’

‘Fuck.’ He manages and loathes himself for it.

He _has_ to do better than this. 

Geralt steps up to Jaskier, arms outstretched, and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. 

‘If you insist?’ Jaskier says, and lets Geralt carry him over to Roach and slide him into the saddle. 

Jaskier talks to him as he always did, not minding Geralt’s sudden lack of speech, and he has far too many things to be grateful for  
already. Jaskier settles on heading north, explaining that he only chose that direction because Roach is already facing that way, but he waits for Geralt’s nod of approval. 

Geralt walks next to them, as Jaskier clicks his heels and sets off.

‘C’mon Roach, don’t want to keep a man with coins in his pants waiting!’

Geralt smiles helplessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soz but our boy Jask needed to have his say chaps! had to be done!  
> we will be hopefully enjoying some Real Fucking Tenderness again next chapter ;_;
> 
> thank you so much for reading and commenting and slapping kudos, you're all absolutely brill & i love you! <3


	17. And Tender Voices Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if you ever look at the comments section you may have noticed that i have fallen completely in love with louie? she is my pretty little wife now and she has done this [AMAZING ART](https://cufflinksanddrinks.tumblr.com/post/626836971970609152/jaskier-rolling-seduce-as-a-distraction-on-geralt) of Jaskier holding a knife to Geralt's throat from the last chapter, i love her, it's astonishing, gaze on this glory and despair!!!!

The afternoon sky eventually darkens, and grey clouds loom threateningly overhead as they make their way down the road into the shelter of the woods.

Jaskier hums to himself as he rides, Geralt seemingly content to listen about for dangers and not minding the humming. The way North will eventually lead them out of Redania, and with autumn around the corner he thinks about their parting, or if they will remain together over winter as he has so often hoped for before. Perhaps they could stay in Oxenfurt for the season, but he knows Geralt enjoys the chance to see what remains of his school. He even dares to think that someday he might be invited, if Geralt truly loves him as he says, but there is a vast difference between their life on the path and inviting a human to the last sanctuary the Witchers have. 

Geralt is trying, that much is very clear, and Jaskier need only think about the sincerity of his speech in that clearing to feel a swoop of tenderness in his stomach. It is easy to forgive a temporary loss for words when Geralt is making so much of an effort. He bites his lip and lets the memories of the Witcher being so caring trickle through his mind, not daring to them examine them too closely lest they prove false. He reaches out and pats the silver sword once, and it is still real and cold to the touch. He is not caught in some blissful dream.

Geralt said he wants him, and loves him, and wants to do better by him. It is hard not to test that desire, when all his past experiences with love have been passionate affairs, but they have to be friends first and foremost, without any other additions. Jaskier has never been one for self-restraint, and now that it might be allowed, the urge to kiss the man he loves is very difficult to resist. He has to set the pace himself, so he can be certain of Geralt’s resolve. 

Their love is at once decades old and brand new, and he feels clumsy with it as a green boy. They know each other bone-deep, but never before like this. The vulnerability of it is raw and giddy at once. Though Geralt has already fucked him senseless, enjoyed his body, it is his heart that is exposed now, and it makes him uncertain. He cannot quite believe it yet. 

Their eyes meet, and Jaskier smiles, feeling awkward. Geralt pauses for a second, as though in deep thought, and then his mouth slowly makes that little quirk at the corner that Jaskier has known and loved for years. 

They glance away again, and grin where the other cannot see. 

…

The rain starts to patter down as dusk falls, and Geralt lifts Jaskier straight off Roach’s back. Jaskier yelps in surprise as he bundles him under the biggest tree he can spot for shelter, and he whistles for Roach to follow them. He carries Jaskier over to the tree and puts him down gently, patting him absentmindedly so he will stay put, and then fetches the oilcloth from Roach’s tack and hangs it best he can over the branches to cover the three of them.

He unwraps one of the bedrolls and wraps Jaskier in it, tucking him in and concentrating on making sure that none of his fine clothes will get damp. Jaskier splutters a little and shakes the blanket off his face again, and giggles. Geralt rushes through settling Roach down for the night as Jaskier watches, remaining where Geralt put him.

The tapping of the rain hums above them, and the world seems hushed, the forest quiet and peaceful around the two of them. Jaskier is swaddled in blankets for warmth, the tip of his nose poking out, and Geralt wants to kiss him so badly he aches. He tears his eyes away and busies himself preparing for the night. He finds the driest log he can and sets it to smouldering at their feet, before rummaging for food and making sure Jaskier has enough to drink. Night falls swiftly, and the firelight dances on Jaskier’s face as he eats slowly, looking bleary eyed and sleepy again. 

The oilskin is wide enough for them to stand huddled together under, but Roach takes up most of the room. There is no room for two bedrolls, and though they have shared warmth on the road before, everything is now layered with uncertainty. He cannot risk Jaskier doing anything solely to please him again, not when this is supposed to be a fresh start. He has to prove himself worthy, and so he must ask.

The words come easily, for once.

‘There’s not enough room. Can I hold you, while you sleep, to keep you warm?’

Jaskier looks at him searchingly, and then nods. Geralt sits with his back against a tree, and opens his arms for Jaskier, and waits.

Jaskier settles himself in Geralt’s lap, warm and willing, and tucks his head against Geralt’s chest. His hand comes up to toy with the laces of Geralt’s shirt, and he smiles absently to himself and hums a little in time with the water trickling above them, staring out at the dark of the woods.

Geralt slowly shifts his arms around to hold him more tightly, watching his face closely for any signs of discomfort, trying his best to scent any shifts in the faint apple contentment, and despairing slightly at how well Jaskier can pretend if he wants to. Jaskier swore he would not do anything he did not want to, and Geralt will have to trust him in turn. 

Jaskier is quieter than he would like, and he dreads the thought of having stoppered up his merry chatter for good. He will explain his reticence, and then perhaps Jaskier will feel easier with his usual patter. He puffs out a breath and manages to unstick his mouth.

‘I was thinking. Earlier, when I couldn’t say it. About losing you.’ Jaskier’s face falls a little. ‘I’d miss you…very much.’

‘You would.’ Jaskier says uncertainly. The hint of doubt on his face is awful to look at. 

His words always come more easily in the dark, when the world is smaller, and he is the only monster for miles, and he searches for the right ones as Jaskier studies his face. Jaskier’s expression is half shadowed by firelight, but his love is in his arms, looking for reassurance, and Geralt cannot fail him. 

‘I always do,’ he manages, ‘when you’re not with me.’

Jaskier nestles closer, shyly, and presses an achingly tiny kiss to where his medallion used to lie on his chest. Even that gentle touch burns him, and he watches Jaskier’s face intently as his eyes drift closed.

He relaxes slowly, tiredness burning his own eyes, but he stays awake long after Jaskier falls asleep, keeping him steady and still in his embrace.

Hours pass, and the rain settles into a steady dull patter. He keeps nodding off and stirring himself awake by sheer force of will. He has missed enough sleep recently to keep succumbing to it now when he should be staying awake, keeping watch and making sure Jaskier can sleep in peace. The lull of the rain is hypnotic, and all his senses are filled with Jaskier, comfortable in his sleep, relaxed and warm, his soft breath puffing reassuringly. 

His head jerks up again, and his hold tightens reflexively.

Jaskier stirs and blinks up at him. He frowns a little.

‘Come on, let go.’ He says, almost whispering, and Geralt releases his hold so fast his motion is a blur. His heart pounds, and he waits anxiously for Jaskier to move.

Jaskier climbs to his feet a little unsteadily, and motions for Geralt to stand as well. He gets to his feet, muscles stiff and exhaustion slowing his mind.

Jaskier unfolds the blanket and arranges himself against the tree instead. Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Jaskier just tugs on his hand firmly. He slumps between Jaskier’s legs and Jaskier nudges him until his head is resting on the bard’s chest, and he shuffles closer hesitantly. Jaskier pats his head a little and then wraps the blankets around them both, until Geralt is surrounded by warmth. His hand strokes through Geralt’s hair, and he almost wants to weep with the sweetness of it. Guilt twists at him, that Jaskier is the one caring for him again, and he tips his head up to meet his gaze.

‘I’m sorry.’ He mumbles. ‘Should be keeping watch.’

‘Hush now darling.’ Jaskier says, fonder than he deserves. ‘Get some rest.’

Geralt closes his eyes obediently, and Jaskier brushes his hands through his hair again soothingly and sings a quiet lilting lullaby. He feels safe, wildly and wholly safe at night in the woods, in his love’s embrace, and the guilt prickles even harder. He is supposed to be making up for twenty years of his own vile mistreatment of Jaskier, not making him look after Geralt again. The thought follows him, even as he finally succumbs to dreaming.

…

The morning sun shines down on them. The last gasps of summer are drawing in, and all the world is lush and green. Roach walks along briskly, Jaskier atop her back once more, and the White Wolf at their side is fussing.

‘Would you like some water?’ says Geralt, looking very earnest. Jaskier smiles, and attempts to refuse politely, but the skin is brandished at him anyway. He catches Geralt’s keen gaze and gives in, accepting the water reluctantly.

Five more minutes pass in silence.

Geralt keeps darting little glances at him. ‘Do you need a break?’ 

They have barely made it five miles yet, by Jaskier’s count. He puffs himself up and replies haughtily, ‘I am not an invalid, Geralt.’

‘No, I know, I just meant if you needed one.’

‘Roach is doing all the work here. I’m fine.’

‘You’ve been very…busy recently?’ Geralt says, sheepishly. ‘Do you want to set up camp soon so you can rest some more?’

‘Geralt.’

He glares peevishly down at the Witcher, who looks absurdly guilty. 

‘I was just-‘

‘Geralt. I can ask you for something, at any time, can’t I?’

‘Yes, of course, anything.’ Geralt is practically vibrating with eagerness now. 

Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose. 

‘You’re terribly sweet, wanting to look after me, but I will ask you if I need anything. I promise.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. You’re hovering now.’

‘Sorry.’ Geralt’s shoulders slump a little, but he stops looking quite so worried.

He thinks for a little while, as they walk on, and his fingers itch. He hasn’t played in so long, and Geralt is supposed to love him now. He can suffer through a little musical accompaniment, even if he doesn’t care for it. A little tendril of worry tries to sneak up, that he will be an annoyance, but he crushes it mercilessly, and straightens up in the saddle.

‘Geralt, you don’t mind if I play, do you?’ His voice doesn’t come out shaky at all, which is more than he’d hoped for. He reaches back and fishes through the bundles of straps coiled to the saddle to get to his lute, avoiding looking at him, just in case. 

‘Please.’ Geralt says, and then clears his throat. ‘It would be nice.’

Jaskier nearly drops his lute in surprise.

‘Really?’ He manages.

Geralt steps up closer to Roach, matching her pace, and hesitantly puts a hand on Jaskier’s knee. 

Jaskier looks at him, face carefully blank, and waits.

‘I should have said it years ago. Your singing. It’s very good.’

‘Good?’

‘Yes.’ Geralt nods decisively. 

‘Are you hearing this Roach? The best bard on the Continent, and our dear Witcher calls my singing _good_?’ He laughs  
nervously, waiting for the joke.

…

Geralt frowns. Jaskier literally sings his praises everywhere he goes, and Geralt has always acted dismissive of his hard work. Another thing he has to make up for. 

‘I meant it. I like your songs. And your singing.’

Jaskier blushes prettily and drops his gaze. He looks so charming that Geralt wants to beg for another kiss. 

‘Thank you.’ He says, almost shy.

A vivid memory of Jaskier squirming on his cock, blushing at Geralt’s praises rises in his mind. Desire spirals deep down in his gut at the thought, and he can feel himself hardening in his trousers. He tries to stamp it down, guilty and lust-filled all at once, but Jaskier is still flushed and pink before his eyes.

Jaskier cocks his head and trails his eyes over Geralt’s body. He smiles wickedly.

‘Won’t you ride with me for a little while?’ He says, slyly.

‘I thought you were going to play?’ Geralt says, almost frantic. The thought of being pressed up against Jaskier in his current state sends dread trickling up his spine.

‘I can’t hold the reins and play the lute at the same time.’

‘I…’ He tries, but Jaskier widens his eyes and looks at him pleadingly.

Geralt cannot resist that look, even if Jaskier is doing it on purpose. 

Jaskier halts Roach, and shimmies forward a little in the saddle invitingly.

Geralt climbs up, and Roach just huffs at him.

He holds the reins in one hand and tries his hardest not to let his body touch Jaskier’s. It is awkward to balance, but he does not want to step where he is not wanted, not by accident or by misreading a friendly invitation. Jaskier just huffs dramatically and flops backwards, leaning against his chest. Geralt freezes, and tries not to move or dislodge him, but he just shuffles closer. 

He relaxes into Jaskier’s warmth slowly. This close, all he can see is the beautiful line of Jaskier’s neck, and he can trace every place he once marked with his own teeth. He wants to press kisses there again so badly it burns, the memory of that soft skin tormenting him, and he can barely stop himself from leaning forward slightly to taste him once more. His cock stirs in his trousers again, and he tries valiantly to calm himself, shoving away the guilty memories of fucking Jaskier as best he can, but he savoured every moment, and the remembrance is too vivid. 

His other hand is still awkwardly hovering in the air, and Jaskier tugs at his wrist and places it high on his own slender thigh, shifting and flexing beneath him as he grips the saddle. Geralt squeezes his eyes closed and tries to breathe again. He doesn’t dare move, in case he reaches too greedily, but his thumb is so close to Jaskier’s groin that he might brush against his cock accidentally. The thought maddens him, and the certainty that Jaskier is doing this deliberately makes him bolder.

Jaskier’s ears are pink, and the honey thick scent of lust is burning around them. Achingly slowly, he lets his fingers draw idle circles on Jaskier’s thigh. He slumps a little more in Geralt’s arms, and Geralt smiles, pleased with himself.

He grips the fabric of Jaskier’s trousers, as if he needs to maintain his balance, and tugs it taut, just a little. Jaskier stiffens imperceptibly, and a half-smothered gasp escapes him. 

He is wriggling now, that pert little bottom flush against Geralt’s cock, and he can’t help but let out a groan as he tries to keep his own hips from thrusting after the sensation. 

Jaskier, gods help him, smells like apples. He giggles, delighted with himself, and Geralt gives in and wraps his arms around him fully, burying his nose in the crook of his neck and humming contentedly. He thought he would never have this again, and now his bard is caught in his embrace, seeking his touch and pleased with his own cleverness. 

The scent of Jaskier’s happiness is intoxicating, and if setting Geralt wild with lust pleases him, then he will happily undergo such sweet torture.

Jaskier settles his lute on his lap properly then, and almost as soon as his fingers touch the strings, a waterfall of music pours out of him. 

His body sags into Geralt’s hold, and Jaskier is somewhere else. A cacophony of blurred melodies merge and soar in symphony. Half snatches of song whirl and dance around them, fingers moving madly through what sounds like twelve different tunes at the same time, and Jaskier sinks into the song.

Geralt smiles and wraps his arms around the bard’s waist protectively, as he strums and sings in staccato bursts of inspiration, feverishly repeating phrases and words in different pitches and timings. The forest around them rises, his song stirring the birds around them to chime in competitively.

Geralt and Roach plod on, watching over Jaskier as a trail of rich apple happiness hangs in the air and follows them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do apologise for the wait, this chapter FOUGHT ME SO HARD, my goodness... hopefully you enjoyed the Real Fucking Tenderness™  
> i have a [tumblr](https://stonecoldsilly.tumblr.com/) now? so blease honk at me to get the fuck on with it there as well ;_;  
> ❤️️ ❤️️ ❤️️


	18. The Thorns In The Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i owe a thousand thanks and blessings to [Nate](/users/%5Bwritterings%5D/) for their ceaseless support and suggestions, without which this chapter most definitely would not exist <3

...

A village rises in the distance ahead of them, and Geralt frowns when he spots it.

He has no money to pay for a night at an inn, and he doesn’t want to have to rely on Jaskier to pay their way, not when he’s supposed to be repaying even an ounce of the devotion Jaskier has shown him over the years.

Jaskier will insist on playing for the night, and spending his hard-earned coin on Geralt, and his bath, and his dinner, and his heart sinks.

He could get coin doing labour, strong enough to take the place of three men, and has done so before, in lean winters when he missed the chance to get to Kaer Morhen. Evening is drawing in, and he would be very lucky indeed to get anyone to offer him work in this village, let alone allow him to work in the dark unsupervised.

If he were alone, he could sleep in the open, as he normally would, but Jaskier deserves all the finery he gave up when he chose to follow Geralt instead, and the least he could try and provide is a night in a backwater tavern.

Jaskier perks up when he spots the village in the distance and clicks his tongue to spur Roach onwards. The heat of apples lingers in the air, and Geralt’s resolve hardens even as Jaskier chatters merrily about civilisation.

He hums in agreement with the bard’s words, and they ride up to the battered looking inn just as the clouds begin to gather overhead. 

Jaskier heads inside straightaway to make his usual dramatic entrance. Geralt makes sure Roach is stabled appropriately and bids her a fond farewell, mind whirring even as he can hear the beginnings of lute strings and the cheers of the villagers begin.

He heads inside, Jaskier thankfully drawing everyone’s gaze, and ‘Toss a Coin’ plays while he approaches the friendliest looking elder he can spot.

‘Any monsters in these parts?’

The elder shakes his head, but his foot taps along to the tune anyway.

‘No, sir, why, we’ve been in fine fettle this season. Had another of you fellows come through, what was it, late spring? Cleared out a few ghouls for us, and we’ve had nothing since.’

‘Have you any other work?’

‘For a Witcher, fraid not.’

‘For a strong man?’

‘Young Nate over there has been trying to get his harvest in, but he broke his leg a few weeks back. Hardly enough hands to go around. You could try him, see if he’ll hire you?

‘I’ll do that, thank you.’

Geralt finds the man quickly, and haggles as best he can. It’s half what he would earn if there were anything he could slay nearby, but it’s enough for now.

He times his approach carefully, and beckons Jaskier over just as he finishes a song and the villagers applaud.

‘I’ve got a job.’

‘Do you want me to come? What is it?’

‘Not sure yet, going to go and have a look. I should be back by midnight. You stay here and sing.’

Jaskier’s face falls a little. Geralt tries his best reassuring smile. There’s no danger, and he would never be so foolish as to leave. Jaskier is doing what he loves, and the last thing he wants is to take that joy away from him. 

‘You’re enjoying yourself.’ 

‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Stay dry. And safe.’ He swallows harshly, the lies sticking in his throat. ‘For me?’

Jaskier smiles, and ducks forward quickly. He presses the briefest kiss to Geralt’s cheek, an innocent peck, and then whirls away, strumming and singing once more.

Geralt keeps his face motionless as he turns and strides out of the inn. The rain picks up, and washes the lingering warmth of Jaskier’s kiss from his face.

He makes his way to the house the farmer spoke of and accepts the tools from the man with a nod. Blunt iron, instead of sharpened silver. He listens carefully to the instructions he is given, and then the door is shut against him. 

The bleakness of the sodden field before him gives him a moments pause, but even from this distance he can make out the warm lights of the village, humans in their safe little houses, and a faint cheer rising across the hills as the inn door opens and shuts again. He turns his face to the sky and closes his eyes against the rain, a tiny glimpse of sodden white haunting the edges of civilisation. 

He smiles a tad wryly at the thought. He can play at being a man all he likes, and with Jaskier it is effortless, but alone, the knowledge that he is not one of them always reasserts itself eventually. The only tenuous link he has to humanity is safe amongst his own kind in that inn, and that is enough for him.

He works for hours, digging up muddy vegetables in the dark and hauling them over to the farmhouse as cold water soaks him to the skin and leaks into his boots.

It is worth it. He has never been one to run from hard labour, and he wants to spoil Jaskier so badly it burns him. For Jaskier to turn to him, eyes shining with delight as Geralt surprises him with a gift. If he can just manage to provide the basics, if he could just get Jaskier a night in a inn, even that would be a good start. 

The midnight bell chimes in the distance, and he only has half an acre left to finish, so he picks up the pace and hauls through the churned mud even faster. The tiredness is beginning to get to him now, and he hopes Jaskier will let him share beds once more, even without the excuse of a lack of funds.

He knocks on the farmer’s door and accepts the coin gladly, letting the walk back to the inn wash most of the mud from his hands. The money is safe in his pocket, and will do them a couple of nights in an inn, or perhaps he could get Jaskier a bath. After a few more jobs he could see about heading to a city and visiting a tailors, so he can spoil Jaskier with a new outfit. The trickle of lute music slowly fades as he gets closer, and the cries for an encore rise up instead.

He opens the door to the inn, and Jaskier is gulping down ale as though parched, and still fidgeting from finishing his performance. People are still making merry, but Geralt heads straight through the crowd, eyes following the trail of Jaskier’s body to make sure he is unharmed.

Jaskier looks up at his approach, and Geralt stops in his tracks, pinned by the ferocity of his glare.

Sweat still beads on his brow, and his cheeks are flushed, but his expression is cool and hard as marble. 

He strides over, and tugs sharply at Geralt’s elbow, pulling him up the stairs and bundling him into a room before he can say a word.

‘One of the lads downstairs asked me if I had any songs about the great White Wolf digging up carrots.’ He smiles, and it looks cruel on him.

‘They didn’t have any need of a Witcher.’ 

‘Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t…’

‘You knew I would think you were on a hunt, not this. Not when I have enough coin for both of us.’

‘You shouldn’t have to. You said it yourself, paying for my dinners, and baths.’

‘ _You_ shouldn’t have to. You deliberately didn’t tell me because you knew I wouldn’t agree.’

‘It’s honest work. And I’ve done it before.’

Jaskier just stares at him. He drips with mud, and the evidence of his apparently futile labour drips on the floor.

‘In the winter, if times are hard, and the monsters are few, then yes. But not while I’m here. You’re more than that, to be honest.’

Geralt shakes his head in disbelief. The whole point of this farce was to try and make up for his behaviour as best he can, not let Jaskier spend his own money as he has done for years unthanked.

‘More?’

Jaskier almost looks sheepish. ‘Look, after what you went through, the trials…’

‘I never told you.’ He blurts out, and then snaps his mouth shut again. If Jaskier knows anything about the trials. And gods, yet another thing he never shared with the man he loves. The worst parts of him, that he’d hidden for so long, exactly how twisted and deformed he is.

‘I looked it up at the university. My first winter. The records were incomplete. But what they did say…’

His first year. They had only spent a summer together, at that point, with Geralt trying to chase him off at every turn, and still Jaskier thought of him. Even surrounded by the buzz of the university, he thought of Geralt. He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier demonstrates his care and affection so easily, or at least he used to.

It stings, the thought of the details of how they carve men into monsters printed in neat clean script on dusty books, for scholars to peer at and remark upon. Even Kaer Morhen has lost a good portion of their library, and to be the topic of the musings of dinner time conversation for idle learned men sets his teeth on edge.

Jaskier never asked him, about the trials. Not once in all the time they knew each other. Never betrayed a hint of his knowledge. And Geralt would never have told him.

‘Look, after the years of training, what you gave up, it has to be honoured. Those sacrifices. You are more than a labourer.’ 

Geralt can’t look him in the eye anymore, and he reaches out a shaky hand for a bottle of wine on the table, just to have something to focus on, for a moment, instead of honeyed words.

‘The things they did were terrible, but they made you into something so much more than a common man. Something greater. And you deserve work that is worthy of you. Not scrabbling in the dark when I have the money for it.’

Geralt turns and glares at him then. He is speaking about things of which he knows too little, and Jaskier is too good at concealing his true feelings for Geralt to believe sweet words alone. 

‘So, it’s beneath me.’ He snaps, and paces damply back and forth, bristling at the insult.

‘That’s not what I said. Years, I’ve sung tales of your heroics, the battles you’ve fought, the lives you’ve saved.’

Jaskier stops and puts a hand on his arm then, staring up at him sternly, deliberately holding his gaze.

‘People need you Geralt, and you can’t put that on me to be the reason you stop. If you want to, then gods know I’ll support you, but not because you think I won’t love you otherwise, or out of guilt.’

Jaskier’s gentle smile twists into something more foolish. ‘After all, I can’t write songs about a farmer, can I?’

Hurt tears at him, and the words slip his grasp before he can stop himself.

‘Go find some other Witcher to follow around then, if you’re so embarrassed.’ 

The wine bottle creaks and shatters in his hand, and he barely notices the wound.

Jaskier flinches, and the scent of fear chokes him. Real, true fear, from the man he loves. 

‘Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t…I didn’t mean that.’

He panics, and gods, he’s doing it again, treating Jaskier like shit, and Jaskier will leave him. There is nothing to tie him to Geralt’s side, and there never was in the first place, and he can’t bear to be alone again. 

‘I’m going to see Roach.’ Jaskier stammers out, face pale. He reaches out, and Jaskier steps back quickly.

He can hear his heart racing, and Geralt’s mind goes blank, muscles trembling with the urge to scoop him up and hold him, hold him here, keep him so he can never leave again. 

He doesn’t dare move, in case he makes things worse, he just pleads instead. 

‘Don’t go. Please.’

‘I’m not leaving.’ Jaskier visibly steadies himself and smiles faintly. ‘I’ll be back. Once we’ve calmed down.’

Geralt stands, muddy and alone, as the door shuts behind Jaskier, the quiet little snick of the latch echoing in the empty room.

He rinses the mud off his face in the little basin, and blood drips sluggishly from his palm. If it were Yennefer here, she could wave her hand and fix him in a second, and he would still wish it were Jaskier instead.

He waits.

…

Jaskier puts his arms around Roach, and just _breathes_.

Geralt clearly didn’t mean it, doesn’t truly wish him to go, and he apologised straightaway. 

It still shook him though, and the last shudders of panic are still working their way through his system. It will be a long time before he can rile Geralt’s temper as he used to without fearing the consequences. Trying to lighten the mood never works when Geralt struggles with hurt feelings, and after last time, up the mountain, Jaskier should bloody know that by now. 

He must be the calm one, when Geralt has spent the night muddy and cold to try and do something nice for him. He didn’t mean to be so ungrateful, but Geralt’s guilt has to be nipped in the bud, before he is the one twisting himself up to please his loved one. 

Roach nuzzles at his hair, and Jaskier barks out a bitter laugh at how thorny and difficult the road grows at every turn. He gives Roach one last pat and turns to head back inside. It is worth it, and remembering that is easier than ever.

…

Geralt snaps his head around to the door when he hears the footsteps approaching, and then Jaskier is back. The air crackles with anticipation, but his relief must show on his face, because Jaskier smiles back at him, and his knees nearly fold under him.

‘Come here.’ Jaskier says, and Geralt steps into his embrace so quickly the motion blurs.

Jaskier just squeezes him, tight enough to nearly creak his ribs, and then whispers, ‘I’m sorry for trying to joke about it. I thought you were going to send me away again.’

‘Never.’ His voice is too loud in the dim room, but Jaskier just tucks himself closer, without a jot of care for the mud Geralt must be leaving on his clothes.

The tiniest wisp of apple scent tickles his nose, and he chases it relentlessly. It is easier to press his nose into Jaskier’s neck and speak without meeting those piercing blue eyes.

‘I’m sorry, for what I said. I promise I didn’t mean it. I just…I don’t know how to keep the path and you, so I chose you. Witchers aren’t supposed to love, or feel, so I can’t be a Witcher anymore.’ 

Jaskier pulls back a little to watch his face as he speaks, but Geralt pushes through regardless. 

‘I came so close to losing you. You loved me then, and I shattered it. And I won’t let it happen again, I can’t. It scares me too much. I just wanted to look after you, the way you looked after me. But I can’t even do that right.’

He slumps over a little, and Jaskier strokes a hand through his hair gently, before tugging at his mud splattered shirt and busying himself at the laces. 

‘You have an absurd capacity for guilt.’

‘I have good reason to be guilty.’

Jaskier snorts at him, and swats at his shoulder. 

‘You don’t have to spoil me, or pay for everything, it’s not a debt you owe me. We can’t tally things like that Geralt.’

He helps Geralt out of his wet clothes as well as he does armour, and Geralt tries to think while Jaskier nudges him into climbing under the warm bedsheets.

‘Why not?’ He manages tentatively, peering up at Jaskier, who is peeling off his own clothes in brisk economic motions.

‘Choking ourselves with guilt won’t do anything for either of us.’ Jaskier says, and this way of thinking is so foreign to him his face crinkles in confusion before he can school his expression.

‘It’s not just guilt,’ Geralt says, and gods does he want to hide under the covers rather than look at Jaskier right now. ‘I just want things to be nice, for you. And this is the only way I know how.’

‘You don’t need to agree with everything I want or fetch me the stars to try and apologise. I don’t need to be spoiled. I just need you to be honest. That’s all I asked for.’

‘I am. For once. Truly. I’ve always wanted to. There were so many times you’d just look at me, with those big blue eyes, and gods, I wanted to give in and say yes to everything you wanted, every time you asked for a break, or to go to town, anything you ever asked me for, but I was still trying to push you away.’ 

Jaskier climbs into the bed. He doesn’t even blink at their closeness, he doesn’t keep some distance between them, he just settles into Geralt’s arms as though he belongs there.

He fiddles with the blankets a bit, and Geralt takes advantage of his silence to thread their fingers together.

‘Geralt, when you think of us together, what do you see? Close your eyes and tell me true.’

He shuts his eyes obediently, and the image rises so easily, vivid in his mind.

‘You at Kaer Morhen. Safe, and warm, wrapped in as many furs as I can find. Lots of food for the winter, so you don’t go hungry. Seeing you with my brothers. Living together, where it’s quiet and we can be safe. Like humans do.’

He opens his eyes again, and Jaskier is smiling at him fondly.

‘I see us on the Path. Where you fight monsters, and I sing about it, and we are greeted at every village with cheers because of my songs, and your battles. Where we can visit towns, and I can drag you dancing, and stay at inns and enjoy ourselves, and then we can sleep under the stars together, just the two of us for miles and miles.’

The simplicity of what Jaskier wants is beautiful. He thought Jaskier would want gold and jewels showered upon him, as his past lovers have done, but all Jaskier has chosen for twenty years is dirt, and hardship, and him. Jaskier will always surprise him, and he cannot guess the man’s mind anymore, if he ever could. He makes the Path sound wonderful. If that is how Jaskier sees it, then perhaps letting Jaskier follow him from Posada isn’t the cruellest thing he’s ever done in a long life of mistakes. 

…

Jaskier blows out a puff of breath and tries to explain himself better so they won’t tangle themselves again.

‘There’s no reason we can’t have both, Geralt. You don’t have to give up your whole life for me, you don’t have to stop protecting people, saving lives, because otherwise you think I’ll go. I won’t. I followed you for twenty years regardless Geralt. I fell in love with a Witcher, so you can’t go telling me what Witchers should and shouldn’t have.’

Geralt glances up at him, gold glinting in the dark.

‘You say you fell in love… Do you still?’

He swallows harshly, and the words leave him entirely. A million metaphors he knows for love, but the poet is silenced.

‘I can’t. Not yet.’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’ Geralt doesn’t betray any signs of hurt, but he has to explain. 

‘It’s too much. It’s everything I wanted and I don’t believe it yet. You do something sweet, and I keep thinking it’s a dream. When I stop checking that I’m awake.’ He smiles sadly, and a little sniff escapes him. ‘Then I’ll be able to. I’ll be able to say it.’ 

Geralt clutches his hand closer, firm and true. ‘I’ll tell you as often as you need to hear it. Morning and night. Because I do. I do love you.’

Jaskier summons all his courage, and leans forward to press a shy kiss to the very corner of Geralt’s mouth, a gentle brush of lips, and then nestles back into his arms, cocooning them both in blankets and allowing the quiet to settle into sleep.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can only apologise profusely for the wait- this chapter was the goddamn albatross around my neck.
> 
> the Yearning™ and the Pining™ is something i have a lifetime of experience with, but the happy soft relationship bits? Not So Much! which makes it HARDER TO WRITE 😩 
> 
> thank you so so so much for your patience ❤️️


	19. And Softly Dawn Is Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honour of our beloved batey-boy providing some excellent content yesterday (and gosh my heart, she hurts), may i present a slightly-delayed-but-still-fresh Extra Chonky Chapter!
> 
> [Donate to The Dear Hearts Drive here!](https://www.refugeewomenconnect.org.uk/donate/dear-hearts-drive/5/credit-card)

...

When Jaskier slides into wakefulness, the first thing he hears is Geralt whispering ‘I love you’ in his ear.

The sunbeams pour in from the window and dance over his face, and he blinks his eyes open to see Geralt smiling down at him shyly.

He yawns, and grins back.

‘A very nice way to wake up. Thank you.’

Geralt hums at him happily, and he could definitely get used to this. 

Jaskier slips out of his arms reluctantly, and shuffles sleepily into his trousers. Geralt dresses in the blue shirt again, and Jaskier tilts his head to one side and eyes it cautiously.

‘Not that I don’t appreciate the colour, because it suits you beautifully, but why the sudden change? You haven’t worn anything but black as long as we’ve known each other.’

Geralt ducks his head, and Jaskier narrows his eyes and steps closer, prodding a finger in his chest.

‘Come on, tell me. Did you finally find your appreciation for a splash of colour?’

‘It reminded me of your eyes.’ He says, 

Jaskier stops and stares at him, speechless. 

‘When you…’ He pauses, obviously searching for the right words. ’…left the inn, I knew I had to go and get you back, and I didn’t know how long it would take.’

‘Gods above, Geralt,’ Jaskier croaks out. ‘For somebody who says Witchers aren’t supposed to love, you have a marvellous romantic streak. It’s songworthy, really it is.’ 

Geralt winces slightly. 

‘You’d write a song about this? Me fucking up everything I touch?’

‘I’ve been writing my love for you into every song since Posada.’

‘A tale of a witcher’s foolishness would make a change from your usual. And not a happy one.’

‘It will have a happy ending, as all the best tales do. I just need to think on the tune.’

‘A happy ending.’ Geralt trails off.

Jaskier edges a little closer, and bites his lip, staring up into those golden eyes. ‘You have me now, and I love the blue, but don’t you think you’d be safer in your armour?’

‘You don’t wear armour, and you seem to think you’re perfectly safe swanning round in silk.’ Geralt grumbles.

‘Yes, but if something comes across us on the road, you don’t have a big strong Witcher to hide behind, do you?’

Geralt hums, conceding the point, and pulls his armour out of the saddlebags. Jaskier fusses with each strap, batting his hands away and tugging the pauldrons into place himself.

Once Geralt is attired as befits his station, he steps back a few paces and admires the fine picture he makes, letting his gaze trail up his body and lingering on the shapely silhouette of his back.

A little thread of worry spins through his mind that the sight of Geralt back in that familiar black will fade the remembrances of his sweetness and dull the epiphanies until they are entirely hollow.

The afterimage of Geralt clad in black and scowling is seared into his skull, a thousand thousand memories of each casual dismissal blurring the present and the past, until the man before him seems as likely to glower at him as he ever has. It could be any other morning, in any other inn, in twenty years of travelling. 

He does not know…he does not know if this is the waking world.

The Witcher is encased in armour once more, looking so like his old self that fear spirals faster than he can dampen it, and Jaskier turns away hastily. 

His thoughts fly before he can try to stop them, that the Geralt who followed him and said he loved him will be put away as a childish fancy, that Jaskier will smile at him and Geralt will frown back, and this world of starlight and silver where he is loved will crumble like ash, only ever a fantasy in his mind, and once more he will trudge unwanted, two paces behind Roach, on Geralt’s sufferance…

…and the daydream will fade. 

His heart patters in his chest, and he busies himself with packing away his lute, and straightening his doublet, and his hands only tremble a little before he wills them forcibly to stop.

His eyes skitter around the room, and land on the silver sword that either a phantom or the real man left him in the clearing. 

It leans against the wall, next to the bed, and he edges closer, inch by inch, not letting a breath of air escape him out of rhythm.

He reaches out to clasp the hilt, and if it were any other morning, in any other inn, with the Witcher in sharp coal black, then Geralt would warn him away, would snap and growl at him for daring to touch his weapon.

No shout breaks the peace of the dawn, and the silver is real and true to the touch. 

The relief he feels is only overwhelmed by the abrupt disgust at his own weakness. There is no ghost here, no false curse, only his own mind twisting fair to foul. Geralt is real, in black or in blue, and he is trying so hard to prove his love, bringing to bear all that implacable will Jaskier would usually witness on a hunt. 

His breath catches and the hilt nearly slides from his grip when Geralt slides his arms around him and presses his nose to the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

He can feel the hard ridges of the armour against his back, and Geralt is holding him, and the silver sword is a reassuring talisman in his hand. 

Real sunlight warms his face, and he allows himself to settle in the moment, to close his eyes and savour the feel of it, grounding himself in the present rather than let his mind tip towards more perilous ground.

They stand together and simply breathe for a while, as Jaskier calms himself and basks in the arms of his love.

…

They leave the village behind them, and ride on to the next, following the road aimlessly.

Jaskier insists on walking beside Roach, too restless to ride even when Geralt offers, and Geralt sets his jaw stubbornly and walks beside him. 

He noodles at the lute strings aimlessly, and then gives it up as a bad job and hums to himself instead as they walk, admiring the view. The valley is wide and lush, and there are no traces of other travellers that he can spot, no rising dust in the distance from a merchant convoy, or even distant smoke from chimneys. They might be alone in the world, and he has chosen this every time it was offered to him.   
For someone who defines themselves as being at home in a crowd, he certainly spends an awful lot of time with an audience of only two.

‘Would you mind if I asked you something?’ Geralt says, interrupting his reverie.

‘Of course.’ He says, a little surprised.

Geralt keeps walking by his side, letting their shoulders brush occasionally, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them.

‘Do you go to your university every year?’

‘No, not every year.’

Geralt opens his mouth, and closes it again, brow furrowing. 

Jaskier takes pity on him. If he can’t ask yet, then Jaskier will allow him the dignity of filling the silence himself.

He lets himself talk heedlessly, for the first time in an age. He tells Geralt about winters in Oxenfurt, teaching students and hosting soirees and salons to meet the most interesting people in town for the season, of meeting old friends and stirring up trouble, how the chime of the tower bells are muffled in the snow, and how he always climbs the roof alone to watch the dawn rise on the solstice. 

His hands draw shapes in the air as he describes the covered markets in detail, and the merchants dredged in by the river with wares from distant lands, how the boats in the canal quarter are moored alongside each other when the river freezes and how he can walk from shore to shore at night across a bridge of boats filled with merrymakers and illuminated by witchlights.

Jaskier glances over, and Geralt is smiling fondly.

‘It’s beautiful, and noisy, and I do love it. But by the second week, I tend to bury myself in the library and try to read everything I missed during the year. And then I tend to the compositions that aren’t easily put together on the road, and workshop the more bombastic pieces with the orchestra. I have to write everything out formally that I want issued to the publishers, and show my face around the faculty, glad-hand patrons and sponsors, that sort of thing. Concerts, dozens of them. Rather more rigorous performances than we get out on the road. The solstice festivals. An awful lot of dashing about.’

‘Sounds fun?’ Geralt tries.

‘I miss you, every year.’

Geralt shuffles a touch closer as they walk, so their fingertips brush as if by accident, and Jaskier conceals his smile. 

‘There’s an awful lot of politics to manage. Drama and gossip and manipulations, petty little power plays. And I thrive on it, don’t misunderstand me, I can dance circles round them all, but sometimes I would long for the simplicity of the road.’

‘That doesn’t sound as fun.’

‘Academics tend towards backstabbing, it’s terribly common. Whereas you’re very straightforward, in comparison.’

‘Unless I lie.’

‘You don’t do it very often. And you usually think you have a good reason when you do.’

‘I am sorry about yesterday. I can…I can be honest.’ 

‘I’m not trying to imply you can’t. It’s just.’ He pauses, and tries to explain. ‘I know you find it more difficult to be open, to talk about things, like I do. With very good reason. But I appreciate the effort. And I don’t mind however long it takes. You’re too hard on yourself. All I ask is that you are honest, whenever you can manage it.’

‘You need the words though.’ Geralt says, sounding very certain. 

He stops walking, and Geralt clicks Roach to a halt as well. They stand in a little huddle in the middle of the road, and he grabs Geralt’s hand in his own, clutching it tightly for emphasis.

‘There is nothing you can tell me that will scare me off. _Nothing_. We’re stuck with each other now, agreed?’

Geralt nods firmly, and laces their fingers together, tugging him and Roach onwards gently.

‘At Kaer Morhen…’ he says, and Jaskier watches his beautiful face as he talks, delight blossoming in his bones. The once-taciturn Witcher describes Kaer Morhen, hesitantly at first, but warming to the subject as the afternoon wears on. Jaskier listens raptly as Geralt talks about his brothers with audible fondness and tells stories about Vesemir’s most formidable battles. 

Geralt tells him about winters spent in the stillness of the mountains, hunting together for days without a word being exchanged, because they are unnecessary. He tells Jaskier how they compete for the most deadly contract taken, how the days are spent in training or working round the keep, how the nights are a blur of White Gull and merry tales, how Lambert still hasn’t fought a Leshen and is desperate to find one, and how Eskel and Vesemir tease him mercilessly for it.

Geralt talks, and Jaskier listens, and Roach walks patiently beside them.

… 

The next settlement appears as they reach the crest of the hills, and Geralt could smell it for miles. A larger town than they’ve been to yet, and Jaskier’s eyes light up at once. He trots forward delightedly, and Geralt gives up and swings them both onto Roach so that she will stop getting lazy.

Jaskier only squawks for a minute or so, and then settles into riding, wrapping his arm firmly round Geralt’s middle and pressing his nose against the chink in his armour where his neck is exposed. 

They trot into the town, and though Geralt still eyes the crowd warily, it must be at least a decade since they arrived somewhere Jaskier’s songs hadn’t beaten them to.

A hue and cry goes up at the other end of the market as Jaskier deliberates between the town’s two inns, and eventually decides on the nicer one. Geralt’s ears prick up, but the cause of the commotion is soon evident, when a balding man in fine embroidery and a mostly golden chain who must be the mayor huffs his way over to them, and gabbles about drowners while gasping for breath.

The mayor looks up at him anxiously, and Geralt’s eyes stray over to Jaskier. The hesitation he feels accepting the contract is new and jarring. He barely listens as Jaskier excuses them politely, and leads him by the hand around the corner of the inn until they are out of human earshot.

He blinks, refocusing on the world around him and Jaskier is looking up at him earnestly.

‘Look, you head out and take care of their little drowner problem, and I’ll stay here and rake in the coin. Then we’ll both have fat purses, and we can both buy each other as many silly treats as we fancy.’

‘You don’t want to come with me?’ 

‘Geralt, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but I have watched enough drowner fights to do it myself at this point.’

Geralt snorts at this.

‘I haven’t performed properly in an age.’

‘You had a whole inn going last night?’ Geralt says, baffled.

‘That was a mere warm up act.’ Jaskier sniffs, and then reaches for his shoulders and shakes him gently. 

‘Both, Geralt. We can have both.’

He nods, a little unsteadily. 

He never thought a Witcher would be given such a gift as this, such pure devotion. For decades of his life, the truth he built his world upon was that only a monster could love a monster, yet Jaskier stands before him, with no scent of fear or falsehood. Trying to be something else seemed easier, but if Geralt can love a human, then maybe Jaskier can love a Witcher, and perhaps it is as simple as that deep down.

He steps closer to Jaskier tentatively, and brushes a lock of soft brown hair from his forehead. 

‘May I kiss you?’ He blurts out. ‘For luck?’

Jaskier’s smile turns devilish. ‘It would be terribly bad luck, would it, sending a Witcher off to fight a monster unkissed?’

‘Oh, definitely.’ Geralt says, bewitched by blue eyes.

‘Then I can only apologise. For all the years you’ve fought unprotected. I suppose I better had.’

He leans closer, and pecks Geralt on the nose.

His face twists into a frown before he can stop himself, and he lets out a disagreeable hum even as Jaskier giggles.

‘One more?’ Geralt can’t help himself, he has to ask. 

‘Just one.’ He says, waggling a finger, and then Jaskier is in his arms, tugging him into a proper kiss, entirely of his own accord, and gods, when their lips brush, the relief that thrills through him is a blessing. 

It is tentative at first, but Jaskier’s mouth is sweet and clever, plush little lips he can never recollect clearly enough to satisfy. He loses himself in it, the noise of distant bleating humans and their lives falling away, only the scent of apple joy fizzing through his blood and marrow. The thought of the hunt evaporates completely, and a groan escapes him as his hands slide down the warmth of Jaskier’s body. 

The first proper taste of Jaskier he’s had in ages is over far too soon, and he marvels at how feeble the memory is in comparison. Jaskier is happy now, and Geralt is in love, and honest about it, and it makes a world of difference.

Jaskier pulls away, breath shallow and Geralt’s thumbs trace idle circles on his hipbones. He leans in again, and steals another kiss, too desperate to care about propriety, too relieved to be wary of being caught.

‘Ger- _alt_.’ Jaskier says against his lips, and he smiles for a second before ducking down for another. He feels as green and excited as any boy with their first love, and the happiness soaring through this dusty alley is intoxicating.

‘Don’t you…’ He sneaks a little peck even as Jaskier opens his mouth to speak. ‘…Have a contract to go on?’ 

‘Rather be here.’ Jaskier’s hand grips his shirt, and then Jaskier is the one kissing him, reeling him in and clutching him tightly, and Geralt doesn’t even try to put up a pretence, he just lets himself enjoy it, sagging in that firm hold and trusting Jaskier to hold him steady. 

He feels warm and dazed by it, when Jaskier finally lets him slip loose. 

‘One more?’ Geralt says and pecks his cheek swiftly. 

‘ _Geralt_.’ Jaskier steps back, and Geralt tangles their fingers together hopefully.

He even pouts dramatically, giddy with pleasure, and Jaskier laughs at him, flushed and pink and merry.

‘Just one?’

‘Go on, shoo.’ He presses his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles and bows, his best imitation of courtly manners, winking up at the bard when Jaskier dissolves into adorable giggles again.

‘I’m going.’ He pretends to sulk.

‘I’ll be playing. You come straight back, you hear?’

‘Yes sir.’ He says, and Jaskier smacks him on the rear playfully and then throws a wave over his shoulder as he rounds the corner.

Geralt flops against the wall of the inn, leaning against the sun warmed brick, just to catch his breath for a moment, and grins up at the sky, idly touching his lips and sighing happily.

How lucky he is to be in love, he thinks, and then has to do some serious work to try and pull back his default scowl back on his face, before he shakes himself briskly and goes to find the mayor again.

…

He returns to the inn past Jaskier’s performance, dripping wet and chilled, without a single scratch on him.

He squelches up to their room, and Jaskier has arranged a plethora of food to be waiting for him. A bathtub steams gently in the corner, and Jaskier presses a huge pint of ale into his hand with a smile.

‘What’s all this then?’

‘Food, drink, bath? Everything a Witcher needs. Are you hurt at all?’

‘Nothing.’ He says proudly.

‘Will you let me look after you? If you could just try it?’ Geralt opens his mouth to protest but Jaskier beats him to it. ‘Just once? See if you like it? I didn’t want to ask for too much, before. But I do want to. I’ve wanted to for ages.’

He deserves everything Geralt can give him, and there is no way in the world he can refuse.

‘Jaskier, anything, of course.’

He smiles, and Geralt is caught.

Jaskier sets plate after plate in front of him, and Geralt devours them ravenously in about ten minutes flat, too hungry to bother with changing out of his sodden armour. He drinks his fill, and then concedes to being peeled out of his clothes with Jaskier’s help. 

Jaskier settles him into the bath, peppering soap flakes in and turning the water milky with foam to conceal his modesty. The hot water relaxes him almost immediately, but then Jaskier brings the little stool up behind him, sitting attentively at Geralt’s back.

His instincts make him want to raise his shoulders up to his ears. He knows bone deep, that Jaskier is both threat and not-threat, that he can turn wild and blazing in the heat of the moment, but at his core he would never harm Geralt on purpose, never turn that sly blade against him in truth. 

Jaskier is a danger, a tricky opponent, and Geralt is vulnerable. 

In the space of half a heartbeat, he deliberately slumps deeper into the water and closes his eyes. 

A warm hand caresses his shoulders, and he lets out an inquisitive hum as Jaskier flutters about behind him. 

‘Keep your eyes closed.’ 

He can hear Jaskier splashing about, and then his eyes are covered completely. He surprises himself, at how feeble the bolt of panic actually is, the residue of instinct rather than true fear.

Hot water tips over his head, and he leans forward.

Jaskier starts humming as he works, and Geralt listens to the tune dancing over the little ripples in the water, and the fog of steam and apple that surrounds them blurs the edges of the world a little. 

Once his hair is thoroughly wetted, Jaskier pauses his ministrations to remove his doublet fully, and Geralt peeks from under his sodden hair. His chemise is thin, and Geralt lets himself look his fill, eyes drinking in the contrast between his slim waist and those deceptively well-muscled arms, the delicate veins in his wrists, and the little glimpses of hair he can make out at the top of his unlaced collar.

He smirks, as Jaskier catches him leering, and gives him a playful smack on the arm. 

‘You’ve no room to be giving me canny looks. I’m not the one who’s all naked and wet.’

‘You’re a lot prettier to look at.’

Jaskier’s jaw actually drops a little.

‘That’s very nice of you to say, but really Geralt, have you looked in a mirror lately?’

‘What?’ He says, baffled.

Jaskier clears his throat, and kneels down beside the tub, pinning him in place with soft blue eyes.

‘You’re beautiful.’ He says, clear and earnest.

Geralt’s heartbeat surges painfully, and blood rushes to his cheeks. 

‘Fuck off.’ He says wildly, and takes the only escape available to him.

He dunks himself under the water, and Jaskier’s snorts are audible even when he’s submerged.

‘Geralt,’ He says loudly, tapping on the side of the bath. ‘You can’t just sit there and glower at me.’ 

He can, he thinks. Witchers can hold their breath for ages. Jaskier might wander off and get bored.

Jaskier loses patience then and plunges his hands in the water, poking him in the stomach until he gives up and tries to sit up casually, resting his arms against the side of the tub as though his impromptu dip had nothing to do with whatever it was Jaskier said.

Jaskier taps his foot and looks down at him. Geralt deliberately does not look back.

He reaches for the soap, and Jaskier bats his hand away with a snort.

Geralt hisses like a kettle before he can stop himself, and Jaskier just hisses right back.

He slumps, defeated by a bard. 

Jaskier sits on his stool again, primly, and motions for Geralt to turn around again. 

‘I’ll be in charge of the soap, thank you very much.’

He submits to his hair washing with bad grace, but the feeling of gentle fingertips stroking his scalp relaxes him more than he’d care to admit, and soon his eyes slip closed again, enjoying the sensation; the obvious care Jaskier is showing him, even if he can’t say it yet.

The lather Jaskier whisks up is different than usual, and the apple bloom is heady in his lungs. He inhales sharply, and then twists round in surprise.

‘You don’t like it?’ Jaskier says, already putting down the little bowl.

‘No, I…’ He flails a bit for the words, unused to explaining this aspect of the mutations.

Jaskier won’t flee now, he doesn’t scare so easily as that, he thinks, wondering at the certainty he feels.

‘That’s what you smell like. When you’re happy. You smell like apples.’

Jaskier nearly drops the bowl entirely then, flustered and flapping his hands about ineffectually.

‘I smell like _apples_?’ He pauses. ‘Is it…?’ He trails off.

‘It’s nice. I like it.’ Geralt says firmly, holding his gaze.

‘So I can use it?’ 

‘I’ll smell like you.’ Now that he’s said it, he wants nothing more. A little reminder of joy, even when Jaskier tends to his own affairs separately. 

Jaskier goes a lovely pink colour, and blows out a huffing breath before settling back into position to tend to Geralt’s hair.

He turns once more, and lets real apple mingle with the sham in his lungs.

Jaskier scrapes his fingers over his scalp, and a shiver rolls down his spine. Goosebumps prickle over his skin at the sensation, gentle tugs at his hair, slow and steady, until his eyes slip closed once more. 

He lifts a hand idly, and casts a low Igni on the bathwater, letting the heat seep through his feet until the ache of battle fades from his limbs.

‘You’re spoiling me.’ He mumbles, as Jaskier works his way down to his neck.

‘Hush. You deserve it. Sometimes. When you’re very good.’

‘Have I been good?’ He says, head lolling under the pressure of Jaskier’s thumbs, unerringly finding where he is most sore.

‘You’ve been _very_ good. You went and fought those drowners, and saved people’s lives, and then you came back to me unhurt.’ 

‘Jaskier.’ He says helplessly, feeling heat bloom all over, toes curling against the praise. His heartbeat doesn’t betray any lie at all, that Geralt can make out. 

He merely presses a kiss against a clean patch of Geralt’s shoulder, and then returns to detangling his hair.

‘And you’re being _especially_ good letting me fuss over you. You’re very sweet.’

‘You’re pushing it now.’ He grates out. The luxury of hot water and apple-scented steam alongside Jaskier’s soft hands and warm praise is sending his head spinning.

‘Am I?’ Jaskier says, affecting surprise. ‘Should I not mention how handsome you look either? All golden in the candlelight?’

A strangled wheeze escapes him, and he shakes his head weakly.

‘Perhaps another night then. I could go on for hours.’ 

‘There’s more?’ Geralt says, words slipping out before he can wrestle them into shape.

‘I’m a poet, as well as a bard. I have hundreds of verses composed to the keen light in your eyes, the way moonlight shimmers in your hair.’ 

Geralt lets himself slip under the water again in hopes of a quick death.

He scrubs the soap out of his hair anyway while he’s down there.

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier’s muffled voice reaches him even underwater. ‘If you don’t resurface, I shall be forced to start reciting.’

The threat is dire enough that he breaches the surface again with a splash, sitting back up and staying very clearly in position.

‘You mean you don’t want to hear my poetry?’ Jaskier says, pouting at him mercilessly.

‘I…er.’ He panics, desperately trying to think of a polite way to say no without hurting Jaskier's feelings, not if it involves talking about how _pretty_ Geralt is.

Jaskier laughs at him, eyes dancing with glee. ‘I am sorry dear, I can see the cogs turning. That was mean of me. I have sonnets galore, but I won’t torture you with them. Yet.’

Geralt glares at him.

‘How will you ever forgive me?’ He says coyly.

‘Kiss?’ Geralt says instantly, painstakingly trained to find every tactical advantage.

Jaskier relents his teasing, and leans down to kiss Geralt very thoroughly. 

Geralt melts into Jaskier’s touch with a delighted sigh, and if he’s not careful the innkeeper will be throwing out a puddle of Witcher along with the bathwater.

He chases his lips when Jaskier moves to shift away, weak for such affection freely given, and the realisation that this could be their Path; together, kisses interspersed with contracts, that it could be like this all the time - the idea fills him with more happiness than he knows what to do with.

Jaskier slips his grasp eventually, shirt soaked where Geralt tugged him closer, and the sight he makes is a lovely one, hair askew, lips red and so obviously freshly kissed. He ought to look like that all the time, muses Geralt, savouring how pleasant the world seems when he might ask for another kiss, and be in with a chance of receiving one.

‘Am I forgiven then?’ Jaskier says.

‘For what?’ Geralt asks, still dazed and love-drunk.

Jaskier giggles at him, the besotted Witcher, but always kindly. 

‘Wash up.’ He trails a hand over Geralt’s back and pats his shoulder fondly, before leaving the vicinity of the tub entirely and busying himself with the oils by the bed.

Geralt takes advantage of his absence to scrub himself properly, and then hops out quickly, pulling a linen towel around himself while Jaskier’s ears go pink out of the corner of his eye. He grins, careful not to let Jaskier catch him at it, and rearranges the towel a trifle lower.   
All’s fair in love and war, he thinks. 

He prowls over to the bed and affects his best innocent look as Jaskier turns to look at him.

‘Where do you want me?’ He says without a trace of guile.

‘The…ah.’ Jaskier flaps his hands around. ‘On the…’

‘Bed?’ Geralt says, and Jaskier’s eyes narrow. 

‘Think you’re very clever, don’t you?’

He grins, caught red-handed.

‘Bed. Now.’ Jaskier points a finger, and that is an order Geralt will always obey.

He throws himself on the sheets, and wriggles around until he’s comfortable. If Geralt indulging all of Jaskier’s whims is what Jaskier wants, then he is happy to oblige. 

Jaskier hums one of Geralt’s favourite songs as he kneels on the bed beside him, and pours oil into his hands. Geralt closes his eyes and then Jaskier is unerringly finding the spot on his back where his swords weigh the heaviest and soothing the muscle with his strong hands. 

He sighs into the touch, and lets the melody wash over him as the simplicity of his joy washes over him. 

To have his beloved tend to him, demonstrating as much care and attention as any Witcher worth their salt would tend their sword, it means the world to one such as he.

He performed his duty as well as ever, and managed to tell Jaskier about Kaer Morhen, even if he wasn’t brave enough to ask him to abandon the delights of Oxenfurt for the season. He even got two kisses, counting each round as a whole, and now Jaskier is singing a soft ballad about love, the strains of song lovely and bright in the room they will share, with a bed he can wrap himself around Jaskier in.

Nothing Geralt can think of could ever make this day any better, and he wants for absolutely nothing.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a dream to write in comparison to the last one my goodness! and i have now written over 100,000 words for The Witcher on AO3 since May, celebrating all round!


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